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IARY 


JAPAN 


THE   GUEST  OF  HONOR 


Drawn  by  Genjiro   Yeto 


jTbe  American  L)iary 
of  a  Japanese  vjrirl 

BY  Miss  MORNING  GLORY 

Illustrated  in  colour  and 
in  blach-and-wbitc 


BY 

Genjiro    Yeto 


NEW     YORK 

Frederick    A.    Stokes    Company 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1901,  by 
Frank  Leslie  Publishing  House. 

Copyright,  1902,  by 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


All  rights  reserved. 


PUBLISHED  IN  SEPTEMBER,  1902. 


To  Her  Majesty 

H  A  R  U  K  0 

Empress  of  Japan 

January,  J902 

since  my  childhood,  thy  sovereign 
beauty  has  been  all  to  me  in  benevolence 
and  inspiration. 

How  often  I  watched  thy  august  presence  in 
happy  amazement  when  thou  didst  pass  along 
our  Tokio  streets  I  What  a  sad  sensation  I  had 
all  through  me  when  thou  wertjust  out  of  sight! 
If  thou  only  knewest,  I  prayed,  that  I  was  one 
of  thy  daughters  I  I  set  it  in  my  mind,  a  long 
time  ago,  that  anything  I  did  should  be  offered 
to  our  mother.  Sow  I  wish  I  could  say  my 
own  mother  I  Mother  art  thou,  heavenly  lady  I 

I  am  now  going  to  publish  my  simple  diary 
of  my  American  journey. 

And  I  humbly  dedicate  it  unto  thee,  our  be- 
loved Empress,  craving  that  thou  wilt  conde- 
scend to  acknowledge  that  one  of  thy  daughters 
had  some  charming  hours  even  in  a  foreign  land. 

Morning  Glory 


List  of  Illustrations. 

"  The  guest  of  honour."  .  .  Frontispiece. 
"A  new  delight  to  catch  the  peeping 

tips  of  my  shoes."  .  .  to  face  page  18 
"Good  night— Native  land!"  ...  20 

"  In  Amerikey." 32 

"Such  disobedient  tools!"  ...  50 

"O  ho,  Japanese  kimono!"  .  .  ,  .  58 
"So  you  like  the  Oriental  woman?"  .  128 
"How  dare  I  swallow  raw  fishes!"  .  .152 
"Uncle,  please  count  how  many  stories 

in  that  building." 248 

Tail-piece 262 


BEFORE  I  SAILED 


BEFORE  I  SAILED 

TOKIO,  Sept.  23rd 

MY  new  page  of  life  is  dawning. 

A  trip  beyond  the  seas — Meriken  Kenbutsu 
— it's  not  an  ordinary  event. 

It  is  verily  the  first  event  in  our  family  his- 
tory that  I  could  trace  back  for  six  centuries. 

My  to-day's  dream  of  America — dream  of  a 
butterfly  sipping  on  golden  dews — was  rudely 
broken  by  the  artless  chirrup  of  a  hundred 
sparrows  in  my  garden. 

"  Chui,  chui  !     Chui,  chui,  chui  !  " 

Bad  sparrows  ! 

My  dream  was  silly  but  splendid. 

Dream  is  no  dream  without  silliness  which  is 
akin  to  poetry. 

If  my  dream  ever  comes  true  ! 

24th — The  song  of  gay  children  scattered 
over  the  street  had  subsided.  The  harvest 
moon  shone  like  a  yellow  halo  of  "  Nono 
Sama."  All  things  in  blessed  Mitsuho  No 


4  The  American  Diary 

Kuni — the  smallest  ant  also — bathed  in  sweet 
inspiring  beams  of  beauty.  The  soft  song  that 
.is  not  to  be  heard  but  to  be  felt,  was  in  the  air. 

'Twas  a  crime,  I  judged,  to  squander  lazily 
such  a  gracious  graceful  hour  within  doors. 

I  and  my  maid  strolled  to  the  Konpira 
shrine. 

Her  red  stout  fingers — like  sweet  potatoes — 
didn't  appear  so  bad  tonight,  for  the  moon 
beautified  every  ugliness. 

Our  Emperor  should  proclaim  forbidding 
woman  to  be  out  at  any  time  except  under 
the  moonlight. 

Without  beauty  woman  is  nothing.  Face 
is  the  whole  soul.  I  prefer  death  if  I  am  not 
given  a  pair  of  dark  velvety  eyes. 

What  a  shame  even  woman  must  grow  old  ! 

One  stupid  wrinkle  on  my  face  would  be 
enough  to  stun  me. 

My  pride  is  in  my  slim  fingers  of  satin  skin. 

I'll  carefully  clean  my  roseate  finger-nails 
before  I'll  land  in  America. 

Our  wooden  clogs  sounded  melodious,  like 
a  rhythmic  prayer  unto  the  sky.  Japs  fit 
themselves  to  play  music  even  with  footgear. 
Every  house  with  a  lantern  at  its  entrance 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  5 

looked  a  shrine  cherishing  a  thousand  idols 
within. 

I  kneeled  to  the  Konpira  god. 

I  didn't  exactly  see  how  to  address  him, 
being  ignorant  what  sort  of  god  he  was. 

I  felt  thirsty  when  I  reached  home.  Before 
I  pulled  a  bucket  from  the  well,  I  peeped 
down  into  it.  The  moonbeams  were  beauti- 
fully stealing  into  the  waters. 

My  tortoise-shell  comb  from  my  head 
dropped  into  the  well. 

The  waters  from  far  down  smiled,  heartily 
congratulating  me  on  going  to  Amerikey. 

25th — I  thought  all  day  long  how  I'll  look 
in  'Merican  dress. 

26th — My  shoes  and  six  pairs  of  silk  stock- 
ings arrived. 

How  I  hoped  they  were  Nippon  silk ! 

One  pair's  value  is  4  yens. 

Extravagance  !     How  dear ! 

I  hardly  see  any  bit  of  reason  against  bare 
feet. 

Well,  of  course,  it  depends  on  how  they  are 
shaped. 


6  The  American  Diary 

A  Japanese  girl's  feet  are  a  sweet  little 
piece.  Their  flatness  and  archlessness  man- 
ifest their  pathetic  womanliness. 

Feet  tell  as  much  as  palms. 

I  have  taken  the  same  laborious  care  with 
my  feet  as  with  my  hands.  Now  they  have 
to  retire  into  the  heavy  constrained  shoes  of 
America. 

It's  not  so  bad,  however,  to  slip  one's  feet 
into  gorgeous  silk  like  that. 

My  shoes  are  of  superior  shape.  They 
have  a  small  high  heel. 

I'm  glad  they  make  me  much  taller. 

A  bamboo  I  set  some  three  Summers  ago 
cast  its  unusually  melancholy  shadow  on  the 
round  paper  window  of  my  room,  and  whis- 
pered, "  Sara  !  Sara  !  Sara  !  " 

It  sounded  to  me  like  a  pallid  voice  of 
sayonara. 

(By  the  way,  the  profuse  tips  of  my  bamboo 
are  like  the  ostrich  plumes  of  my  new  Amer- 
ican hat.) 

"  Sayonara "  never  sounded  before  more 
sad,  more  thrilling. 

My  good-bye  to  "  home  sweet  home  "  amid 
the  camellias  and  white  chrysanthemums  is 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  7 

within  ten  days.  The  steamer  "  Belgic " 
leaves  Yokohama  on  the  sixth  of  next  month. 
My  beloved  uncle  is  chaperon  during  my 
American  journey. 

27th — I  scissored  out  the  pictures  from  the 
'Merican  magazines. 

(The  magazines  were  all  tired-looking  back 
numbers.  New  ones  are  serviceable  in  their 
own  home.  Forgotten  old  actors  stray  into 
the  villages  for  an  inglorious  tour.  So  it  is 
with  the  magazines.  Only  the  useless  num- 
bers come  to  Japan,  I  presume.) 

The  pictures — Meriken  is  a  country  of 
woman ;  that's  why,  I  fancy,  the  pictures  are 
chiefly  of  woman — showed  me  how  to  pick  up 
the  longf  skirt.  That  one  act  is  the  whole 

o 

"  business  "  of  looking  charming  on  the  street. 
I  apprehend  that  the  grace  of  American  ladies 
is  in  the  serpentine  curves  of  the  figure,  in  the 
narrow  waist. 

Woman  is  the  slave  of  beauty. 

I  applied  my  new  corset  to  my  body.  I 
pulled  it  so  hard. 

It  pained  me. 


8  The  American  Diary 

28th — My  heart  was  a  lark. 

I  sang,  but  not  in  a  trembling  voice  like  a 
lark,  some  slices  of  school  song. 

I  skipped  around  my  garden. 

Because  it  occurred  to  me  finally  that  I'll 
appear  beautiful  in  my  new  costume. 

I  smiled  happily  to  the  sunlight  whose 
autumnal  yellow  flakes — how  yellow  they 
were  ! — fell  upon  my  arm  stretched  to  pluck  a 
chrysanthemum. 

I  admit  that  my  arm  is  brown. 

But  it's  shapely. 

2Qth — English  of  America — sir,  it  is  light, 
unreserved  and  accessible — grew  dear  again. 
My  love  of  it  returned  like  the  glow  in  a  brazier 
that  I  had  watched  passionately,  then  left  all 
the  Summer  days,  and  to  which  I  turned  my 
apologetic  face  with  Winter's  approaching 
steps. 

Oya,  oya,  my  book  of  Longfellow  under 
the  heavy  coat  of  dust ! 

I  dusted  the  book  with  care  and  veneration 
as  I  did  a  wee  image  of  the  Lord  a  month 
ago. 

The  same  old  gentle  face  of  'Merican  poet 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  9 

— a  poet  need  not  always  to  sing,  I  assure 
you,  of  tragic  lamentation  and  of  "  far-be- 
yond  "-—stared  at  me  from  its  frontispiece. 
I  wondered  if  he  ever  dreamed  his  volume 
would  be  opened  on  the  tiny  brown  palms  of  a 
Japan  girl.  A  sudden  fancy  came  to  me  as  if 
he — the  spirit  of  his  picture — flung  his  critical 
impressive  eyes  at  my  elaborate  cue  with 
coral-headed  pin,  or  upon  my  face. 

Am  I  not  a  lovely  young  lady  ? 

I  had  thrown  Longfellow,  many  months 
ago,  on  the  top  shelf  where  a  grave  spider 
was  encamping,  and  given  every  liberty  to 
that  reticent,  studious,  silver-haired  gentle- 
man Mr.  Moth  to  tramp  around  the  "  Ar- 
cadie." 

Mr.  Moth  ran  out  without  giving  his  own 
"  honourable  "  impression  of  the  popular  poet, 
when  I  let  the  pages  flutter. 

Large  fatherly  poet  he  is,  but  not  unique. 
Uniqueness,  however,  has  become  common- 
place. 

Poet  of  "  plain  "  plainness  is  he — plainness 
in  thought  and  colour.  Even  his  elegance  is 
plain  enough. 

I   must  read    Mr.    Longfellow    again    as    I 


io  The  American  Diary 

used  a  year  ago  reclining  in  the  Spring 
breeze,— "  A  Psalm  of  Life,"  "The  Village 
Blacksmith,"  and  half  a  dozen  snatches  from 
"  Evangeline "  or  "The  Song  of  Hiawatha" 
at  the  least.  That  is  not  because  I  am  his 
devotee — I  confess  the  poet  of  my  taste  isn't 
he — but  only  because  he  is  a  great  idol  of 
American  ladies,  as  I  am  often  told,  and  I 
may  suffer  the  accusation  of  idiocy  in  Amer- 
ica, if  I  be  not  charming  enough  to  quote 
lines  from  his  work. 

3Oth — Many  a  year  I  have  prayed  for 
something  more  decent  than  a  marriage  offer. 

I  wonder  if  the  generous  destiny  that  will 
convey  me  to  the  illustrious  country  of  "wo- 
man first  "  isn't  the  "  something." 

I  am  pleased  to  sail  for  Amerikey,  being  a 
woman. 

Shall  I  have  to  become  "  naturalized  "  in 
America  ? 

The  Jap  "  gentleman  " —who  desires  the 
old  barbarity — persists  still  in  fancying  that 
girls  are  trading  wares. 

When  he  shall  come  to  understand  what  is 
Love  ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 1 

Fie  on  him  ! 

I  never  felt  more  insulted  than  when  I  was 
asked  in  marriage  by  one  unknown  to  me. 

No  Oriental  man  is  qualified  for  civilisa- 
tion, I  declare. 

Educate  man,  but — beg  your  pardon — not 
the  woman  ! 

Modern  gyurls  born  in  the  enlightened 
period  of  Meiji  are  endowed  with  quite  a  re- 
markable soul. 

I  act  as  I  choose.  I  haven't  to  wait  for  my 
mamma's  approval  to  laugh  when  I  incline  to. 

Oct.  ist — I  stole  into  the  looking  glass — 
woman  loses  almost  her  delight  in  life  if  with- 
out it — for  the  last  glimpse  of  my  hair  in 
Japan  style. 

Butterfly  mode  ! 

I'll  miss  it  adorning  my  small  head,  while 
I'm  away  from  home. 

I  have  often  thought  that  Japanese  display 
Oriental  rhetoric  —  only  oppressive  rhetoric 
that  palsies  the  spirit — in  hair  dressing.  Its 
beauty  isn't  animation. 

I  longed  for  another  new  attraction  on  my 
head. 


* 

12  The  American  Diary 

I  felt  sad,  however,  when  I  cut  off  all  the 
paper  cords  from  my  hair. 

I  dreaded  that  the  American  method  of 
dressing  the  hair  might  change  my  head  into 
an  absurd  little  thing. 

My  lengthy  hair  languished  over  my 
shoulders. 

I  laid  me  down  on  the  bamboo  porch  in  the 
pensive  shape  of  a  mermaid  fresh  from  the 
sea. 

The  sportive  breezes  frolicked  with  my 
hair.  They  must  be  mischievous  boys  of  the 
air. 

I  thought  the  reason  why  Meriken  coiffure 
seemed  savage  and  without  art  was  mainly 
because  it  prized  more  of  natural  beauty. 

Naturalness  is  the  highest  of  all  beauties. 

Sayo  shikaraba  ! 

Let  me  learn  the  beauty  of  American  free- 
dom, starting  with  my  hair  ! 

Are  you  sure  it's  not  slovenliness  ? 

Woman's  slovenliness  is  only  forgiven  where 
no  gentleman  is  born. 

2nd — Occasional  forgetfulness,  I  venture  to 
say,  is  one  of  woman's  charms. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 3 

But  I  fear  too  many  lapses  in  my  case  fill 
the  background. 

I  amuse  myself  sometimes  fancying  whether 
I  shall  forget  my  husband's  name  (if  I  ever 
have  one). 

How  shall  I  manage  "  shall "  and  "will"? 
My  memory  of  it  is  faded. 

I  searched  for  a  printed  slip,  "  How  to  use 
Shall  and  Will."  I  pressed  to  explore  even 
the  pantry  after  it. 

Afterward  I  recalled  that  Professor  asserted 
that  Americans  were  not  precise  in  grammar. 
The  affirmation  of  any  professor  isn't  weighty 
enough.  But  my  restlessness  was  cured 
somehow. 

14  This  must  be  the  age  of  Jap  girls!"  I 
ejaculated. 

I  was  reading  a  paper  on  our  bamboo  land, 
penned  by  Mr.  Somebody. 

The  style  was  inferior  to  Irving' s. 

I  have  read  his  gratifying  "  Sketch  Book." 
I  used  to  sleep  holding  it  under  my  wooden 
pillow. 

Woman  feels  happy  to  stretch  her  hand  even 
in  dream,  and  touch  something  that  belongs 


14  The  American  Diary 

to  herself.  "  Sketch  Book  "  was  my  child  for 
many,  many  months. 

Mr.  Somebody  has  lavished  adoring  words 
over  my  sisters. 

Arigato  !     Thank  heavens  ! 

If  he  didn't  declare,  however,  that  "  no 
sensible  musume  will  prefer  a  foreign  raiment 
to  her  kimono  !  " 

He  failed  to  make  of  me  a  completely  happy 
nightingale. 

Shall  I  meet  the  Americans  in  our  flapping 
gown  ? 

I  imagined  myself  hitting  off  a  tune  of  "  Ka- 
ran  Coron  "  with  clogs,  in  circumspect  steps, 
along  Fifth  Avenue  of  somewhere.  The 
throng  swarmed  around  me.  They  tugged  my 
silken  sleeves,  which  almost  swept  the  ground, 
and  inquired,  "How  much  a  yard?"  Then 
they  implored  me  to  sing  some  Japanese  ditty. 

I'll  not  play  any  sensational  r6le  for  any 
price. 

Let  me  remain  a  homely  lass,  though  I 
express  no  craft  in  Meriken  dress. 

Do  I  look  shocking  in  a  corset  ? 

"  In  Pekin  you  have  to  speak  Makey  Hey 
Rah  "  is  my  belief. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 5 

3rd — My  hand  has  seldom  lifted  anything 
weightier  than  a  comb  to  adjust  my  hair  flow- 
ing down  my  neck. 

The  "  silver"  knife  (large  and  sharp  enough 
to  fight  the  Russians)  dropped  and  cracked  a 
bit  of  the  rim  of  the  big  plate. 

My  hand  tired. 

My  uncle  and  I  were  seated  at  a  round 
table  in  a  celebrated  American  restaurant,  the 
"  Western  Sea  House." 

It  was  my  first  occasion  to  face  an  orderly 
heavy  Meriken  table  d'hote. 

Its  fertile  taste  was  oily,  the  oppressive 
smell  emetic. 

Must  I  make  friends  with  it  ? 

I  am  afraid  my  small  stomach  is  only  fitted 
for  a  bowl  of  rice  and  a  few  cuts  of  raw  fish. 

There  is  nothing  more  light,  more  inviting, 
than  Japanese  fare.  It  is  like  a  sweet  Summer 
villa  with  many  a  sliding  shoji  from  which  you 
smile  into  the  breeze  and  sing  to  the  stars. 

Lightness  is  my  choice. 

When,  I  wondered,  could  I  feel  at  home 
with  American  food  ! 

My  uncle  is  a  Meriken  "  toow."  He  prom- 
ised to  show  me  a  heap  of  things  in  America. 


1 6  The  American  Diary 

He  is  an  1884  Yale  graduate.  He  occupies 
the  marked  seat  of  the  chief  secretary  of  the 
"  Nippon  Mining  Company."  He  has  pro- 
cured leave  for  one  year. 

What  were  the  questionable-looking  frag- 
ments on  the  plate  ? 

Pieces  with  pock-marks  ! 

Cheese  was  their  honourable  name. 

My  uncle  scared  me  by  saying  that  some 
"  charming  "  worms  resided  in  them. 

Pooh,  pooh  ! 

They  emitted  an  annoying  smell.  You  have 
to  empty  the  choicest  box  of  tooth  powder 
after  even  the  slightest  intercourse  with  them. 

I  dare  not  make  their  acquaintance — no,  not 
for  a  thousand  yens. 

I  took  a  few  of  them  in  my  pocket  papers 
merely  as  a  curiosity. 

Shall  I  hang  them  on  the  door,  so  that  the 
pest  may  not  C3me  near  to  our  house  ? 

(Even  the  pest-devils  stay  away  from  it,  you 
see.) 

4th — The  "  Belgic  "  makes  one  day's  delay. 
She  will  leave  on  the  seventh. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 7 

"  Why  not  one  week  ?"  I  cried. 

I  pray  that  I  may  sleep  a  few  nights  longer 
in  my  home.  I  grow  sadder,  thinking  of  my 
departure. 

My  mother  shouldn't  come  to  the  Meriken 
wharf.  Her  tears  may  easily  stop  my  Ameri- 
can adventure. 

I  and  my  maid  went  to  our  Buddhist 
monastery. 

I  offered  my  good-bye  to  the  graves  of  my 
grandparents.  I  decked  them  with  elegant 
bunches  of  chrysanthemums. 

When  we  turned  our  steps  homeward  the 
snowy-eyebrowed  monk — how  unearthly  he  ap- 
peared !  — begged  me  not  to  forget  my  family's 
church  while  I  am  in  America. 

"  Christians  are  barbarians.  They  eat  beef 
at  funerals,"  he  said. 

His  voice  was  like  a  chant. 

The  winds  brought  a  gush  of  melancholy 
evening  prayer  from  the  temple. 

The  tolling  of  the  monastery  bell  was  tragic. 

"  Goun  !  Goun  !  Goun  !  " 

5th — A  "  chin  koro"  barked  after  me. 
The  Japanese   little   doggie   doesn't   know 


1 8  The  American  Diary 

better.  He  has  to  encounter  many  a  strange 
thing. 

The  tap  of  my  shoes  was  a  thrill  to  him. 
The  rustling  of  my  silk  skirt — such  a  volatile 
sound — sounded  an  alarm  to  him. 

I  was  hurrying  along  the  road  home  from 
uncle's  in  Meriken  dress. 

What  a  new  delight  I  felt  to  catch  the  peep- 
ing tips  of  my  shoes  from  under  my  trailing 
koshi  goromo. 

I  forced  my  skirt  to  wave,  coveting  a  more 
satisfactory  glance. 

Did  I  look  a  suspicious  character  ? 

I  was  glad,  it  amused  me  to  think  the  dog 
regarded  me  as  a  foreign  girl. 

Oh,  how  I  wished  to  change  me  into  a  differ- 
ent style  !  Change  is  so  pleasing. 

My  imitation  was  clever.      It  succeeded. 

When  I  entered  my  house  my  maid  was  dis- 
mayed and  said : 

"  Bikkuri  shita  !  You  terrified  me.  I  took 
you  for  an  ijin  from  Meriken  country." 

"Ho,  ho!     Oho,  ho,  ho!" 

I  passed  gracefully  ( like  a  princess  making 
her  triumphant  exit  in  the  fifth  act)  into  my 
chamber,  leaving  behind  my  happiest  laughter 
and  shut  myself  up. 


A  NEW   DELIGHT  TO  CATCH  THK  PEEPING  TIPS  OK  MY  SHOES 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 9 

I  confess  that  I  earned  the  most  delicious 
moment  I  have  had  for  a  long  time. 

I  cannot  surrender  under  the  accusation  that 
Japs  are  only  imitators,  but  I  admit  that  we 
Nippon  daughters  are  suited  to  be  mimics. 

Am  I  not  gifted  in  the  adroit  art  ? 

Where's  Mr.  Somebody  who  made  himself 
useful  to  warn  the  musumes  ? 

Then  I  began  to  rehearse  the  scene  of  my 
first  interview  with  a  white  lady  at  San  Fran- 
cisco. 

I  opened  Bartlett's  English  Conversation 
Book,  and  examined  it  to  see  if  what  I  spoke 
was  correct. 

I  sat  on  the  writing  table.  Japanese  houses 
set  no  chairs. 

(Goodness,  mottainai  !  I  sat  on  the  great 
book  of  Confucius.) 

The  mirror  opposite  me  showed  that  I  was 
a  "  little  dear." 

6th — It  rained. 

Soft,  woolen  Autumn  rain  like  a  gossamer  ! 

Its  suggestive  sound  is  a  far-away  song 
which  is  half  sob,  half  odor.  The  October 
rain  is  sweet  sad  poetry. 


20  The  American  Diary 

I  slid  open  a  paper  door. 

My  house  sits  on  the  hill  commanding  a 
view  over  half  Tokio  and  the  Bay  of  Yedo. 

My  darling  city — with  an  eternal  tea  and 
cake,  with  lanterns  of  festival — looked  up  to 
me  through  the  gray  veil  of  rain. 

I  felt  as  if  Tokio  were  bidding  me  farewell. 

Sayonara  !     My  dear  city  I 


GOOD  NIGHT— NATIVE  LAND 


ON  THE  OCEAN 

;th 


GooD-night  —  native  land  ! 

Farewell,  beloved  Empress  of  Dai  Nippon! 

1  2th  —  The  tossing  spectacle  of  the  waters 
(also  the  hostile  smell  of  the  ship)  put  my 
head  in  a  whirl  before  the  "  Belgic  "  left  the 
wharf. 

The  last  five  days  have  been  a  continuous 
nightmare.  How  many  a  time  would  I  have 
preferred  death  ! 

My  little  self  wholly  exhausted  by  sea-sick- 
ness. Have  I  to  drift  to  America  in  skin  and 
bone  ? 

I  felt  like  a  paper  flag  thrown  in  a  tempest. 

The  human  being  is  a  ridiculously  small 
piece.  Nature  plays  with  it  and  kills  it  when 
she  pleases. 

I  cannot  blame  Balboa  for  his  fancy, 
because  he  caught  his  first  view  from  the  peak 
in  Darien. 


24  The  American  Diary 

It's  not  the  "  Pacific  Ocean."  The  breaker 
of  the  world  ! 

"  Do  you  feel  any  better  ? "  inquired '  my 
fellow  passenger. 

He  is  the  new  minister  to  the  City  of 
Mexico  on  his  way  to  his  post.  My  uncle  is 
one  of  his  closest  friends. 

What  if  Menken  ladies  should  mistake  me 
for  the  "  sweet  "  wife  of  such  a  shabby  pock- 
marked gentleman  ? 

It  will  be  all  right,  I  thought,  for  we  shall 
part  at  San  Francisco. 

(The  pock-mark  is  rare  in  America,  Uncle 
said.  No  country  has  a  special  demand  for 
it,  I  suppose.) 

His  boyish  carelessness  and  samurai- 
fashioned  courtesy  are  characteristic.  His 
great  laugh,  "  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! "  echoes  on  half  a 
mile. 

He  never  leaves  his  wine  glass  alone.  My 
uncle  complains  of  his  empty  stomach. 

The  more  the  minister  repeats  his  cup  the 
more  his  eloquence  rises  on  the  Chinese 
question.  He  does  not  forget  to  keep  up  his 
honourable  standard  of  diplomatist  even  in 
drinking,  I  fancy. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  25 

I  see  charm  in  the  eloquence  of  a  drunkard. 

I  exposed  myself  on  deck  for  the  first  time. 

I  wasn't  strong  enough,  alas !  to  face  the 
threatening  grandeur  of  the  ocean.  Its 
divineness  struck  and  wounded  me. 

0  such  an  expanse  of  oily-looking  waters  ! 
O  such  a  menacing  largeness  ! 

One  star,  just  one  sad  star,  shone  above. 

1  thought  that  the  little  star  was  trembling 
alone  on  a  deck  of  some  ship  in  the  sky. 

Star  and  I  cried. 

1 3th — My  first  laughter  on  the  ocean  burst 
out  while  I  was  peeping  at  a  label,  "  7  yens," 
inside  the  chimney-pot  hat  of  our  respected 
minister,  when  he  was  brushing  it. 

He  must  have  bought  that  great  headgear 
just  on  the  eve  of  his  appointment. 

How  stupid  to  leave  such  a  bit  of  paper ! 

I  laughed. 

He  asked  what  was  so  irresistibly  funny. 

I  laughed  more.  I  hardly  repressed  "  My 
dear  old  man." 

The  "  helpless  me  "  clinging  on  the  bed  for 
many  a  day  feels  splendid  to-day. 


26  The  American  Diary 

The  ocean  grew  placid. 

On  the  land  my  eyes  meet  with  a  thousand 
temptations.  They  are  here  opened  for  noth- 
ing but  the  waters  or  the  sun-rays. 

I  don't  gain  any  lesson,  but  I  have  learned 
to  appreciate  the  demonstrations  of  light. 

They  were  white.  O  what  a  heavenly 
whiteness  ! 

The  billows  sang  a  grand  slow  song  in  bless- 
ing of  the  sun,  sparkling  their  ivory  teeth. 

The  voyage  isn't  bad,  is  it  ? 

I  planted  myself  on  the  open  deck,  facing 
Japan. 

I  am  a  mountain-worshipper. 

Alas  !  I  could  not  see  that  imperial  dome 
of  snow,  Mount  Fuji. 

One  dozen  fairies — two  dozen — roved  down 
from  the  sky  to  the  ocean. 
I  dreamed. 
I  was  so  very  happy. 

1 4th — What  a  confusion  my  hair  has  suffered  ! 
I  haven't  put  it  in  order  since  I  left  the  Orient. 
Such  negligence  of  toilet  would  be  fined  by 
the  police  in  Japan. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  27 

I  was  busy  with  my  hair  all  the  morning. 

1 5th — The  Sunday  service  was  held. 

There's  nothing  more  natural  on  a  voyage 
than  to  pray. 

We  have  abandoned  the  land.  The  ocean 
has  no  bottom. 

We  die  any  moment  "  with  bubbling  groan, 
without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and 
unknown." 

Only  prayer  makes  us  firm. 

I  addressed  myself  to  the  Great  Invisible 
whose  shadow  lies  across  my  heart. 

He  may  not  be  the  God  of  Christianity. 
He  is  not  the  Hotoke  Sama  of  Buddhism. 

Why  don't  those  red-faced  sailors  hum 
heavenly-voiced  hymns  instead  of — "swear?" 

1 6th — Amerikey  is  away  beyond. 

Not  even  a  speck  of  San  Francisco  in  sight 
yet  ! 

I  amused  myself  thinking  what  would  hap- 
pen if  I  never  returned  home. 

Marriage  with  a  'Merican,  wealthy  and 
comely  ? 

I   had  wellnigh  decided  that    I    would  not 


28  The  American  Diary 

cross  such  an  ocean  again  by  ship.  I  would 
wait  patiently  until  a  trans-Pacific  railroad  is 
erected. 

I  was  basking  in  the  sun. 

I  fancied  the  "  Belgic  "  navigating  a  wrong 
track. 

What  then  ? 

Was  I  approaching  lantern-eyed  demons  or 
howling  cannibals  ? 

"  lya,  iya,  no  !  I  will  proudly  land  on  the 
historical  island  of  Lotos  Eaters."  I  said. 

Why  didn't  I  take  Homer  with  me?  The 
ocean  is  just  the  place  for  his  majestic  sim- 
plicity and  lofty  swing. 

I  recalled  a  few  passages  of  "  The  Lotos 
Eaters  "  by  Lord  Tennyson — it  sounds  better 
than  "  the  poet  Tennyson."  I  love  titles,  but 
they  are  thought  as  common  as  millionaires 
nowadays. 

A  Jap  poet  has  a  different  mode  of  speech. 

Shall  I  pose  as  poet? 

'Tis  no  great  crime  to  do  so. 

I  began  my  "  Lotos  Eaters  "  with  the  follow- 
ing mighty  lines : 

"  O  dreamy  land  of  stealing  shadows  ! 

O  peace-breathing  land  of  calm  afternoon  ! 


of  a.  Japanese  Girl  29 

O  languid  land  of  smile  and  lullaby  ! 
O  land  of  fragrant  bliss  and  flower  ! 
O  eternal  land  of  whispering  Lotos  Eaters  !  " 

Then  I  feared  that  some  impertinent  poet 
.might  have  said  the  same  thing  many  a  year 
before. 

Poem  manufacture  is  a  slow  job. 

Modern  people  slight  it,  calling  it  an  old 
fashion.  Shall  I  give  it  up  for  some  more 
brilliant  up-to-date  pose  ? 

1 7th — I  began  to  knit  a  gentleman's  stock- 
ings in  wool. 

They  will  be  a  souvenir  of  this  voyage. 

(  I  cannot  keep  a  secret.) 

I  tell  you  frankly  that  I  designed  them  to  be 
given  to  the  gentleman  who  will  be  my  future 
"beloved." 

The  wool  is  red,  a  symbol  of  my  sanguine 
attachment. 

The  stockings  cannot  be  much  larger  than 
my  own  feet.  I  dislike  large-footed  gentlemen. 

1 8th — My  uncle  asked  if  my  great  work  of 
poetical  inspiration  was  completed. 

"  Uncle,  I  haven't  written  a  dozen  lines  yet. 


3O  The  American  Diary 

My  '  Lotos  Eaters '  is  to  be  equal  in  length  to 
'  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.'  Now,  see,  Oji  San, 
mine  has  to  be  far  superior  to  the  laureate's, 
not  merely  in  quality,  but  in  quantity  as  well. 
But  I  thought  it  was  not  the  way  of  a  sweet 
Japanese  girl  to  plunder  a  garland  from  the 
old  poet  by  writing  in  rivalry.  Such  a  nice 
man  Tennyson  was  !"  I  said. 

I  smiled  and  gazed  on  him  slyly. 

"  So  !     You  are  very  kind  ! "  he  jerked. 

1 9th — I  don't  think  San  Francisco  is  very 
far  off  now.  Shall  I  step  out  of  the  ship  and 
walk? 

Has  the  "  Belgic  "  coal  enough  ?  I  wonder 
how  the  sensible  steamer  can  be  so  slow  ! 

Let  the  blank  pages  pass  quickly  !  Let  me 
come  face  to  face  with  the  new  chapter — 
"  America  ! " 

The  gray  monotone  of  life  makes  me 
insane. 

Such  an  eternal  absence  of  variety  on  the 
ocean  ! 

2oth — The  moon — how  large  is  the  ocean 
moon  ! — sat  above  my  head. 


of  a.  Japanese  Girl  3 1 

When  I  thought  that  that  moon  must  have 
been  visiting  in  my  dearest  home  of  Tokio, 
the  tragic  scene  of  my  "  Sayonara,  mother  !  " 
instantly  returned. 

Tears  on  my  cheeks  ! 

Morning,  2ist — Three  P.  M.  of  to-day  ! 

At  last !  • 

Beautiful  Miss  Morning  Glory  shall  land  on 
her  dream-land,  Amerikey. 

That's  my  humble  name,  sir. 

1 8  years  old. 

(Why  does  the  'Merican  lady  regard  it  as 
an  insult  to  be  asked  her  own  age  ?) 

My  knitting  work  wasn't  half  done.  I  look 
upon  it  as  an  omen  that  I  shall  have  no  luck 
in  meeting  with  my  husband. 

Tsumaranai  !     What  a  barren  life  ! 

Our  great  minister  was  placing  a  button  on 
his  shirt.  His  trembling  fingers  were  un- 
certain. 

I  snatched  the  shirt  from  his  hand  and 
exhibited  my  craft  with  the  needle. 

"  I  fancied  that  you  modern  girls  were 
perfect  strangers  to  the  needle,"  he  said. 


32  The  American  Diary 

He  is  not  blockish,  I  thought,  since  he 
permits  himself  to  employ  irony. 

My  uncle  was  lamenting  that  he  had  not 
even  one  cigar  left. 

Both  those  gentlemen  offered  to  help  me 
in  my  dressing  at  the  landing. 

I  declined  gracefully. 

Where  is  my  looking-glass  ? 

I  must  present  myself  very — very  pretty. 


IN  AMERIKEY 


IN  AMERIKEY 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  night,  2ist 
"  GOOD-BYE,  Mr.  Belgic  !" 
I  delight   in    personifying   everything   as  a 
gentleman. 

What  does  it  mean  under  the  sun  !  Kitsune 
ni  tsukamareta  wa !  Evil  fox,  I  suppose, 
got  hold  of  me.  "  Gentlemen,  is  this  real 
Amerikey  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 

Oya,  ma,  my  Meriken  dream  was  a  complete 
failure. 

Did  I  ever  fancy  any  sky-invading  dragon 
of  smoke  in  my  own  America? 

The  smoke  stifled  me. 

Why  did  I  lock  up  my  perfume  bottle  in 
my  trunk  ? 

I  hardly  endured  the  smell  from  the  wagons 
at  the  wharf.  Their  rattling  noise  thrust 
itself  into  my  head.  A  squad  of  Chinamen 
there  puffed  incessantly  the  menacing  smell  of 
cigars. 


36  The  American  Diary 

Were  I  the  mayor  of  San  Francisco — how 
romantic  "the  Mayor,  Miss  Morning  Glory" 
sounds  ! — I  would  not  pause  a  moment  before 
erecting  free  bath-houses  around  the  wharf. 

I  never  dreamed  that  human  beings  could 
cast  such  an  insulting  smell. 

The  smell  of  honourable  wagon  drivers  is  the 
smell  of  a  M-O-N-K-E-Y. 

Their  wild  faces  also  prove  their  likeness  to 
it. 

They  must  have  furnished  all  the  evidence 
to  Mr.  Darwin.  "  The  better  part  lies  some 
distance  from  here,"  said  my  uncle. 

I  exclaimed  how  inhospitable  the  Americans 
were  to  receive  visitors  from  the  back  door  of 
the  city. 

We  are  not  empty-stomached  tramps  rapping 
the  kitchen  door  for  a  crust  of  bread. 

We  refused  hotel  carnage. 

We  walked  from  the  Oriental  wharf  for  the 
sake  of  the  street  sight-seeing. 

Tamageta  wa  !  A  house  was  whirling  along 
the  street.  Look  at  the  horseless  car!  How 
could  it  be  possible  to  pull  it  with  a  rope  under 
ground ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  3  7 

* 

Everything  reveals  a  huge  scale  of  measure- 
ment. 

The  continental  spectacle  is  different  from 
that  of  our  islands. 

We  40,000,000  Japs  must  raise  our  heads  from 
wee  bits  of  land.  There's  no  room  to  stretch 
elbows.  We  have  to  stay  like  dwarf  trees. 

I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  the  Americans  ex- 
claim in  Japan,  "  What  a  petty  show  !  " 

Such  a  riotous  rush  !  What  a  deafening 
uproar ! 

The  lazy  halt  of  a  moment  on  the  street 
must  have  been  regarded,  I  fancied,  as  a  viola- 
tion of  the  law. 

I  wondered  whether  one  dozen  were  not 
slain  each  hour  on  Market  Street  by  the  cars. 

Cars  !     Cars  !     And  cars  ! 

It  was  no  use  to  look  beautiful  in  such  a 
cyclone  city.  Not  even  one  gentleman  moved 
his  admiring  eyes  to  my  face. 

How  sad ! 

I  thought  it  must  be  some  festival. 

"  No,  the  usual  Saturday  throng  !  "  my  uncle 
said. 

Then  I  asked  myself  whether  Tokio  streets 
were  only  like  a  midnight  of  this  city. 


38  The  American  Diary 

My  beloved  minister  kept  his  mouth  open— 
what  heavy  lips  he  had  !  — amazed  at  the  high 
edifices. 

"  O  ho,  that's  astonishing  !"  he  cried,  throw- 
ing his  sottish  eyes  on  the  clock  of  the  CJiron- 
icle  building. 

"  Boys  are  commenting  on  you,"  I  whis- 
pered. 

I  beseeched  him  not  to  act  so  droll. 

He  tossed  out  in  his  careless  fashion  his 
everlasting  heroic  laughter,  "  Ha,  ha,  ha— 

A  hawkish  lad — I  have  not  seen  one  sleepy 
fellow  yet — drew  near  the  minister  shortly  after 
we  left  the  wharf,  and  begged  to  carry  his  bag. 

He  was  only  too  glad  to  be  assisted.  The 
brown  diplomatist  thought  it  a  loving  deed 
toward  a  foreigner. 

He  bowed  after  some  blocks,  thanking  the 
boy  with  a  hearty  "  arigato." 

"  Sir,  you  have  to  pay  me  two  bits  ! " 

His  hand  went  to  his  pocket,  when  my  uncle 
tapped  his  stooping  back,  speaking  :  "  This  is 
the  country  of  eternal  'pay,  pay,  pay,'  old  man!  " 

"  What  does  a  genuine  American  beggar 
look  like  ?  "  was  my  old  question. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  39 

The  Meriken  beggar  my  friend  saw  at 
Yokohama  park  was  dressed  up  in  a  swallow- 
tail coat.  Emerson's  essays  were  in  his  hand. 
He  was  such  a  genteel  Mr.  Beggar,  she  said. 

I  often  heard  that  everybody  is  a  millionaire 
in  America.  I  thought  it  likely  that  I  should 
see  a  swell  Mr.  Beggar  among  the  Americans. 

How  many  a  time  had  I  planned  to  make  a 
special  trip  to  Yokohama  for  acquaintance  with 
the  honourable  Emerson  scholar  ! 

Alas,  it  was  merely  a  fancy  ! 

I  have  seen  Mr.  Beggar  on  the  street. 

He  didn't  appear  in  the  formal  dignity  of  a 
dress  coat. 

Where  was  his  Emerson  ? 

He  was  not  unlike  his  Oriental  brothers, 
after  all. 

He  stood,  because  he  wasn't  used  to  kneel- 
ing like  the  Japs. 

The  only  difference  was  that  he  carried 
pencils  instead  of  a  musical  instrument. 

He  is  a  merchant, — this  is  a  business 
country, — while  the  Japanese  Mr.  Beggar  is 
an  artist,  I  suppose. 

My  little  gold  watch  pointed  eleven. 


4o  The  American  Diary 

I  have  been  writing  for  some  hours  about  my 
first  impression  of  the  city  from  the  wharf,  and 
my  journey  from  there  to  this  Palace  Hotel. 

The  number  of  my  room  is  489. 

I  fear  I  may  not  return  if  I  once  go  out. 
It's  so  hard  to  remember  the  number. 

The  large  mirror  reflected  me  as  being  so 
very  small  in  the  big  room. 

Such  a  great  room  with  high  ceiling ! 

I  don't  feel  at  home  at  all. 

Not  a  petal  of  flower.  No  inviting  picture 
on  the  wall ! 

I  was  tired  of  hearing  the  artificial  greeting, 
"  Irasshai  mashi,"  or  "  Honourable  welcome," 
of  the  eternally  bowing  Japanese  hotel  at- 
tendants. 

But  the  too  simple  treatment  of  'Merican 
hotel  is  hardly  to  my  taste. 

Not  even  one  girl  to  wait  on  me  here ! 

No  "  honourable  tea  and  cake." 

22nd — I  need  repose.  The  last  few  weeks 
have  stirred  me  dreadfully.  I  will  slumber 
just  comfortably  day  after  day,  I  decided. 

But  the  same  feeling  as  on  the  ocean  re- 
turned. 


of  a.  Japanese  Girl  41 

My  American  bed  acted  like  water,  waving 
at  even  my  slightest  motion. 

I  fancied  I  was  exercising  even  in  sleep. 

It  is  too  soft. 

Nothing  can  put  me  at  complete  ease  like 
my  hereditary  lying  on  the  floor. 

I  was  restless  all  the  night  long. 

I  got  up,  since  the  bed  was  no  joy. 

Oh,  the  blue  sky  ! 

I  thought  I  should  never  again  see  a  sap- 
phire sky  while  I  am  here.  I  was  wrong. 

This  is  church  day. 

The  bells  of  the  street-cars  sounded  musical. 

The  sky  appeared  in  best  Sunday  dress. 

I  felt  happy  thinking  that  I  should  see  the 
stars  from  my  hotel  window  to-night. 

I  made  many  useless  trips  up  and  down  the 
elevator  for  fun. 

What  a  tickling  dizziness  I  tasted ! 

I  close  my  eyes  when  it  goes. 

It's  an  awfully  new  thing,  I  reckon. 

Something  on  the  same  plan,  I  imagine,  as 
a  "  seriage  "  of  the  Japanese  stage  for  a  foot- 
less ghost  rising  to  vanish. 

It    is    astonishing  to   notice  what  a  conde- 


42  The  American  Diary 

scending  manner  the  white  gentlemen  display 
toward  ladies. 

They  take  off  their  hats  in  the  elevator- 
some  showing  such  a  great  bald  head,  like  a 
funny  O  Binzuru,  that  is  as  common  as  spec- 
tacled children  —  if  any  woman  is  present. 
They  stand  humbly  as  Japs  to  the  august 
"Son  of  Heaven."  They  crawl  out  like  lambs 
after  the  woman  steps  away. 

It  puzzles  me  to  solve  how  women  can  be 
deserving  of  such  honour. 

What  a  goody-goody  act  ! 

But  I  wonder  how  they  behave  themselves 
before  God  ! 

23rd — It  is  delightful  to  sit  opposite  the 
whitest  of  linen  and- — to  portray  on  it  the  face 
of  an  imaginary  Mr.  Sweetheart  while  eating. 

Whiteness  is  appetising. 

And  the  boldly-marked  creases  of  the  linen 
are  so  dear.  Without  them  the  linen  is  not 
half  so  inviting. 

I  was  taught  the  beauty  of  single  line  in 
drawing  class  some  years  ago. 

But  now  for  the  first  time  I  fully  compre- 
hended it  from  the  Meriken  tablecloth. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  43 

I  wished  I  could  ever  stay  gazing  at  it. 

If  I  start  my  housekeeping  in  this  country — 
do  I  ever  dream  of  it  ? — I  shall  not  hesitate  to 
invest  all  my  money  in  linen. 

I  laughed  when  I  fancied  that  I  sat  with  my 
husband — where's  he  in  the  world? — spread- 
ing a  skilfully  ironed  linen  cloth  on  the  Spring 
grasses  (what  a  gratifying  white  and  green  !), 
and  I  upset  a  teapot  over  the  linen,  while  he 
ran  after  water ; — then  I  picked  all  the  butter- 
cups and  covered  the  dark  red  stain. 

The  minister  makes  a  ridiculous  show  of 
himself  in  the  dining  room. 

His  laughter  draws  the  attention  of  every 
lady. 

This  morning  he  exclaimed  :  "  Americans 
have  no  courtesy  for  strangers,  except  mean- 
ing money." 

And  he  finished  his  speech  with  his  boister- 
ous "  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

A  pale  impatient  lady,  like  a  trembling  winter 
leaf,  sitting  at  the  table  next  to  us,  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  muttered,  "  Oh,  my  !  " 

I  hoped  I  could  invent  any  scheme  to  make 
him  hasten  to  his  post — Kara  or  Tenjiku, 
whatever  place  it  be. 


44  The  American  Diary 

He  is  good-natured  like  a  rubber  stamp. 

But  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  he  does  not  fit 
Amerikey. 

I  was  relieved  when  he  announced  tnat  his 
departure  would  occur  to-morrow. 

My  dignity  was  saved. 

I  cut  a  square  piece  of  paper.  I  pencilled 
on  it  as  follows  : 


To  the  Japanese  Legation 

The  City  of  Mexico 
Handle  Carefully,  Easily  Broken. 


I  put  it  on  the  large  palm  of  the  minister. 
I  warned  him  that  he  should  never  forget  to 
pin  it  on  his  breast. 

"  Mean  little  thing  you  are  !"  he  said. 

And  his  great  happy  "  Ha,  ha,  ha !  "  fol- 
lowed as  usual. 

Bye-bye  ! 

The  negroes  are  horrid.  I  scanned  them 
on  the  first  chance  of  my  life. 

What  is  the  standard  of  beauty  of  their 
tribe,  I  am  eager  to  be  informed  ! 

I  searched  for  "coon"  in  my  dictionary. 
The  explanation  was  unsatisfactory. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  45 

The  ever-so-kind  Americans  don't  consider 
them,  I  am  certain,  as  "animals  allied  to  the 
bear." 

Tell  me  what  it  means. 

24th — Spittoon  ! 

The  American  spittoon  is  famous,  Uncle 
says. 

From  every  corner  in  this  nine-story  hotel — 
think  of  its  eight  hundred  and  fifty-one 
rooms  ! — you  are  met  by  the  greeting  of  the 
spittoon. 

How  many  thousand  are  there  ? 

It  must  be  a  tremendous  task  to  keep  them 
clean  as  they  are. 

I  wonder  why  the  proprietor  doesn't  give 
the  city  the  benefit  of  some  of  them. 

San  Francisco  ought  to  place  spittoons  along 
the  sidewalk. 

The  ladies  wear  such  a  long  gaudy  skirt. 

And  it  is  quite  a  fashion  of  modern  gents,  it 
appears,  to  spit  on  the  pavements. 

This  Palace  Hotel  is  a  palace. 

You  drop  into  the  toilet  room,  for  instance. 

You  cannot  help  exclaiming  :  "  lya,  haya, 
Japan  is  three  centuries  behind  !  " 


46  The  American  Diary 

Everything  presents  to  you  a  silent  lecture 
of  scientific  modernism. 

Whenever  I  am  bothered  too  much  by  my 
uncle  I  lock  myself  up  in  the  toilet  room.  There 
I  feel  the  whole  world  is  mine. 

I  can  take  off  my  shoes.  I  can  play  acrobat 
if  I  prefer. 

Nobody  can  spy  me. 

It  is  the  place  where  you  can  pray  or  cry  all 
you  desire  without  one  interruption. 

My  room  is  great,  equipped  with  every  new 
invention.  Numbers  of  electric  globes  dazzle 
with  kingly  light  above  my  head. 

If  I  enter  my  room  at  dusk,  I  push  a  button 
of  electricity. 

What  a  satisfaction  I  earn  seeing  every  light 
appear  to  my  honourable  service  ! 

I  look  upon  my  finger  wondering  how  such 
an  Oriental  little  thing  can  make  itself  potent 
like  the  mighty  thumb  of  Mr.  Edison. 

25th — What  a  novel  sensation  I  felt  in  writ- 
ing "  San  Francisco,  U.  S.  A.,"  at  the  head  of 
my  tablet ! 

(What  agitation  I  shall  feel  when  I  write 
my  first  "  Mrs."  before  my  name  !  Woman 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  47 

must  grow  tired  of  being  addressed  "  Miss," 
sooner  or  later.) 

I  have  often  said  that  I  hardly  saw  any 
necessity  for  corresponding  when  one  lives  on 
such  a  small  island  as  Japan. 

I  could  see  my  friends  in  a  day  or  two,  at 
whatever  place  I  was. 

I  have  now  the  ocean  between  me  and  my 
home. 

Letter  writing  is  worth  while. 

I  did  not  know  it  was  such  a  sweet  piece  of 
work. 

I  should  declare  it  to  be  as  legitimate  and 
inexpensive  a  game  as  ever  woman  could  in- 
dulge in. 

I  was  stepping  along  the  courtyard  of  this 
hotel. 

I  have  seen  a  gentleman  kissing  a  woman. 

I  felt  my  face  catching  fire. 

Is  it  not  a  shame  in  a  public  place  ? 

I  returned  to  my  apartment.  The  mirror 
showed  my  cheeks  still  blushing. 

The    Japanese    consul    and    his     Meriken 


48  The  American  Diary 

wife — she  is  some  inches  higher  than  her  dar- 
ling— paid  us  a  call. 

I  said  to  myself  that  they  did  not  match  well. 
It  was  like  a  hired  haori  with  a  different  coat 
of  arms. 

The  Consul  looked  proud,  as  if  he  carried  a 
crocodile. 

Mrs.  Consul  invited  us  for  luncheon  next 
Sunday. 

"  Quite  a  family  party — O  ho,  ho  !  " 

Her  voice  was  unceremonious. 

I  noticed  that  one  of  her  hair-pins  was  about 
to  drop.  I  thought  that  Meriken  woman  was 
as  careless  as  I. 

How  many  hairpins  do  you  suppose  I  lost 
yesterday  ? 

Four  !  Isn't  that  awful  ? 

My  uncle  innocently  stated  to  her  I  was  a 
great  belle  of  Tokio. 

I  secretly  pinched  his  arm  through  his  coat- 
sleeve.  My  little  signal  did  not  influence  him 
at  all.  He  kept  on  his  hyperbolical  advertise- 
ment of  me. 

She  promised  a  beautiful  girl  to  meet  me  on 
Sunday. 

I  fancied  how  she  looked. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  49 

I    thought    my    performance   of    the    first 
interview  with  Meriken  woman  was  excellent. 
But  my  rehearsal  at  home  was  useless. 

26th — I  lost  my  little  charm. 

It  worried  me  awfully. 

It  was  given  me  by  my  old-fashioned  mother. 
She  got  it  after  a  holy  journey  of  one  month 
to  the  shrine  of  Tenno  Sama. 

I  should  be  safe,  Mother  said,  from  water, 
fire  and  highwayman  (what  else,  God  only 
knows  )  as  long  as  I  should  carry  it. 

I  sought  after  it  everywhere.  I  begged  my 
uncle  to  let  me  examine  his  trunk. 

"  Cast  off  an  ancient  superstition  !  "  Uncle 
scorned. 

I  sat  languidly  on  the  large  armchair  which 
almost  swallowed  my  small  body. 

I  imagined  many  a  punishment  already  in- 
flicted on  me. 

The  tick-tack  of  my  watch  from  my  waist 
encouraged  my  nervousness. 

There  is  nothing  more  irritating  than  a  tick- 
tack. 

I  locked  up  my  watch  in  the  drawer  of  the 
dresser. 


50  The  American  Diaty 

I  still  felt  its  tick-tack  pursuing  my  ears. 
Then  I  put  it  under  the  pillow. 

27th — How  I  wished  I  could  exchange  a 
ten-dollar  gold-piece  for  a  tassel  of  curly  hair ! 

American  woman  is  nothing  without  it. 

Its  infirm  gesticulation  is  a  temptation. 

In  Japan  I  regarded  it  as  bad  luck  to  own 
waving  hair. 

But  my  tastes  cannot  remain  unaltered  in 
Amerikey. 

I  don't  mind  being  covered  with  even  red 
hair. 

Red  hair  is  vivacity,  fit  for  Summer's  shiny  air. 

I  remember  that  I  trembled  at  sight  of  the 
red  hair  of  an  American  woman  at  Tokio. 
Japanese  regard  it  as  the  hair  of  the  red  de- 
mon in  Jigoku. 

I  sat  before  the  looking-glass,  with  a  pair 
of  curling-tongs. 

I  tried  to  manage  them  with  surprising  pa- 
tience. I  assure  you  God  doesn't  vouchsafe 
me  much  patience. 

Such  disobedient  toois ! 

They  didn't  work  at  all.  I  threw  them  on 
the  floor  in  indignation. 


"SUCH    DISOIiKDIKNT    TOOLS  ! 


Drawn  hy  Genjiro  J  V//> 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  5 1 

My  wrists  pained. 

I  sat  on  the  floor,  stretching  out  my  legs. 
My  shoe-strings  were  loosed,  but  my  hand  did 
not  hasten  to  them. 

I  was  exhausted  with  making  my  hair  curl. 

I  sent  my  uncle  to  fetch  a  hair-dresser. 

28th — How  old  is  she  ? 

I  could  never  suggest  the  age  of  a  Meriken 
woman. 

That  Miss  Ada  was  a  beauty. 

It's  becoming  clearer  to  me  now  why  Cali- 
fornia puts  so  much  pride  in  her  own  girls. 

Ada  was  a  San  Franciscan  whom  Mrs.  Con- 
sul presented  to  me. 

What  was  her  family  name  ? 

Never  mind  !  It  is  an  extra  to  remember  it 
for  girls.  We  don't  use  it. 

How  envious  I  was  of  her  long  eyelashes 
lacing  around  the  large  eyes  of  brown  hue  ! 

Brown  was  my  preference  for  the  velvet 
hanao  of  my  wooden  clogs. 

Long  eyelashes  are  a  grace,  like  the  long 
skirt. 

I  know  that  she  is  a  clever  young  thing. 

She  was   learned  in   the  art  of  raising  and 


52  The  American  Diary 

dropping  her  curtain  of  eyelashes.  That  is 
the  art  of  being  enchanting.  I  had  said  that 
nothing  could  beat  the  beauty  of  my  black 
eyes.  But  I  see  there  are  other  pretty  eyes 
in  this  world. 

Everything  doesn't  grow  in  Japan.  Noses 
particularly. 

My  sweet  Ada's  nose  was  an  inspiration, 
like  the  snow-capped  peak  of  O  Fuji  San.  It 
rose  calmly — how  symmetrically  ! — from  be- 
tween her  eyebrows. 

I  had  thought  that  'Merican  nose  was 
rugged,  big  of  bone. 

I  see  an  exception  in  Ada. 

She  must  be  the  pattern  of  Meriken  beauty. 

I  felt  that  I  was  so  very  homely. 

I  stole  a  sly  glance  into  the  looking-glass, 
and  convinced  myself  that  I  was  a  beauty  also, 
but  Oriental. 

We  had  different  attractions. 

She  may  be  Spring  white  sunshine,  while  I 
am  yellow  Autumn  moonbeams.  One  is  ani- 
mation, and  the  other  sweetness. 

I  smiled. 

She  smiled  back  promptly. 

We  promised  love  in  our  little  smile. 


of  a  Japanese  Girt  53 

She  placed  her  hand  on  my  shoulder.  How 
her  diamond  ring  flashed !  She  praised  the 
satin  skin  of  my  face. 

She  was  very  white,  with  a  few  sprinkles  of 
freckles.  Their  scattering  added  briskness  to 
the  face  in  her  case.  (But  doesn't  San  Fran- 
cisco produce  too  many  freckles  in  woman  ?) 
The  texture  of  Ada's  skin  wasn't  fine.  Her 
face  was  like  a  ripe  peach  with  powdery 
hair. 

Is  it  true  that  dark  skin  is  gaining  popular- 
ity in  American  society  ? 

The  Japanese  type  of  beauty  is  coming  to 
the  front  then,  I  am  happy. 

I  repaid  her  compliment,  praising  her  ele- 
gant set  of  teeth. 

Ada  is  the  free-born  girl  of  modern 
Amerikey. 

She  need  never  fear  to  open  her  mouth  wide. 

She  must  have  been  using  special  tooth- 
powder  three  times  a  day. 

44  We  are  great  friends  already,  aren't  we  ?" 
I  said. 

And  I  extended  my  finger-tips  behind  her, 
and  pulled  some  wisps  of  her  chestnut  hair. 

44  Please,  don't ! "  she   said,  and  raised   her 


54  The  American  Diary 

sweetly  accusing  eyes.  Then  our  friendship 
was  confirmed. 

Girls  don't  take  much  time  to  exchange 
their  faith. 

I  was  uneasy  at  first,  thinking  that  Ada 
might  settle  herself  in  a  tdte-a-tete  with  me,  in 
the  chit-chat  of  poetry.  I  tried  to  recollect 
how  the  first  line  of  the  "  Psalm  of  Life  "  went, 
for  Longfellow  would  of  course  be  the  first 
one  to  encounter. 

Alas,  I  had  forgotten  it  all. 

I  was  glad  that  her  query  did  not  roam  from 
the  remote  corner  of  poesy. 

"  Do  you  play  golf  ?  "  she  asked. 

She  thinks  the  same  things  are  going  on  in 
Japan. 

Ada  !     Poor  Ada  ! 

The  honourable  consul  and  my  uncle  looked 
stupid  at  the  lunch  table. 

I  thought  they  were  afraid  of  being  given 
some  difficult  question  by  the  Meriken  ladies. 

Mrs.  Consul  and  Ada  ate  like  hungry  pigs. 
(I  beg  their  pardon  !) 

"  You  eat  like  a  pussy  ! "  is  no  adequate 
compliment  to  pay  to  a  Meriken  woman. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  55 

I  found  out  that  their  English  was  neither 
Macaulay's  nor  Irving's. 

29th — I  ate  a  tongue  and  some  ox-tail  soup. 

Think  of  a  suspicious  spumy  tongue  and 
that  dirty  bamboo  tail ! 

Isn't  it  shocking  to  even  incline  to  taste 
them  ? 

My  mother  would  not  permit  me  to  step 
into  the  holy  ground  of  any  shrine  in  Japan. 
She  would  declare  me  perfectly  defiled  by  such 
food. 

I  shall  turn  into  a  beast  in  the  jungle  by 
and  by,  I  should  say. 

My  uncle  committed  a  greater  indecency. 
He  ate  a  tripe. 

It  was  cooked  in  the  "western  sea  egg- 
plant," to  taste  of  which  brings  on  the  small- 
pox, as  I  have  been  told. 

He  said  that  he  took  a  delight  in  pig's  feet. 

Shame  on  the  Nippon  gentleman  ! 

Harai  tamae  !     Kiyome  tamae  ! 

3<Dth — "  Chui,  chui,  chui !" 
A  little  sparrow  was  twittering  at  my  hotel 
window. 


56  The  American  Diary 

I  could  not  believe  that  the  sparrow  of  large 
America  could  be  as  small  as  the  Nippon-born. 

Horses  are  large  here.  Woman's  mouth  is 
large,  something  like  that  of  an  alligator. 
Policeman  is  too  large. 

I  fancied  that  little  birdie  might  be  one 
strayed  from  the  bamboo  bush  of  my  family's 
monastery. 

"  Sweet  vagabond,  did  you  cross  the  ocean 
for  Meriken  Kenbutzu  ?  "  I  said. 

"Chui,  chui  !  Chui,  chui,  chui!"  he 
chirped. 

Is  "  chui,  chui  "  English,  I  wonder  ? 

I  pushed  the  window  up  to  receive  him. 

Oya,  ma,  he  has  gone ! 

I  felt  so  sorry. 

I  was  yearning  after  my  beloved  home. 

This  is  the  great  chrysanthemum  season  at 
home.  I  missed  the  show  at  Dangozaka. 

How  gracefully  the  time  used  to  pass  in 
Dai  Nippon,  while  I  sat  looking  at  the  flowers 
on  a  tokonoma. 

Every  place  is  a  strange  gray  waste  to  me 
without  the  intimate  faces  of  flowers. 

Flowers  have  no  price  in  Japan,  just  as  a 
poet  is  nothing,  for  everybody  there  is  poet. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  5  7 

But  they  have  a  big  value  in  this  city — al- 
though I  am  not  positive  that  an  American 
poet  creates  wealth. 

I  purchased  a  select  bouquet  of  violets. 

I  passed  by  several  young  gentlemen. 
Were  their  eyes  set  on  my  flowers  or  my 
hands  ? 

I  don't  wear  gloves.  I  don't  wish  my  hands 
to  be  touched  harshly  by  them.  Truly  I  am 
vain  of  showing  my  small  hands. 

I  love  the  violet,  because  it  was  the  favorite 
of  dear  John — Keats,  of  course. 

It  may  not  be  a  flower.  It  is  decidedly  a 
perfume,  anyhow. 

3ist — I  have  heard  a  sad  piece  of  news  from 
Mrs.  Consul  about  Mr.  Longfellow. 

She  says  that  he  has  ceased  to  be  an  idol  of 
American  ladies. 

He  has  retired  to  a  comfortable  fireside  to 
take  care  of  school  children. 

Poor  old  poet  ! 

Nov.  ist — American  chair  is  too  high. 

Are  my  legs  too  short  ? 

It  was  uncomfortable  to  sit  erect  on  a  chair 


58  The  American  Diary 

all  the  time  as  if  one  were  being  presented  be- 
fore the  judge. 

And  those  corsets  and  shoes  ! 

They  seized  me  mercilessly. 

I  said  that  I  would  spend  a  few  hours  in 
Japan  style,  reclining  on  the  floor  like  an 
eloped  angel. 

I  brought  out  a  crape  kimono  and  my  girdle 
with  the  phoenix  embroidery,  after  having 
locked  the  entrance  of  my  room. 

"  Kotsu,  kotsu,  kotsu  ! " 

Somebody  was  fisting  on  my  door. 

Oya,  she  was  Ada,  my  "  Rose  of  Frisco  "  or 
"  Butterfly  of  Van  Ness." 

(She  was  quartered  in  Van  Ness  Avenue, 
the  most  elegant  street  of  a  whole  bunch.) 

She  was  sprightly  as  a  runaway  princess. 
She  blew  her  sunlight  and  fragrance  into  my 
face. 

I  was  grateful  that  I  chanced  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  such  a  delightful  Meriken  lady. 

"O  ho,  Japanese  kimono  !  If  I  might  only 
try  it  on  ! "  she  said. 

I  told  her  she  could. 

"  How  lovely  !  "  she  ejaculated. 

We  promised  to  spend  a  gala  day  together. 


Drawn  fry  (.isnjiro  Yeto 


"O  HO,  JAPANESE  KIMONO!" 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  59 

"  We  will  rehearse,"  I  said,  "  a  one-act 
Japanese  play  entitled  '  Two  Cherry  Blos- 
som Musumes.' ' 

I  assisted  her  to  dress  up.  She  was  utterly 
ignorant  of  Oriental  attire. 

What  a  superb  development  she  had  in 
body  !  Her  chest  was  abundant,  her  shoul- 
ders gracefully  commanding.  Her  rather 
large  rump,  however,  did  not  show  to  advan- 
tage in  waving  dress.  Japs  prefer  a  small 
one. 

My  physical  state  is  in  poverty. 

I  was  wrong  to  believe  that  the  beauty  of 
woman  is  in  her  face. 

It  is  so,  of  course,  in  Japan.  The  brown 
woman  eternally  sits.  The  face  is  her  com- 
plete exhibition. 

The  beauty  of  Meriken  woman  is  in  her 
shape. 

I  pray  that  my  body  may  grow. 

The  Japanese  theatre  never  begins  without 
three  rappings  of  time-honoured  wooden 
blocks. 

I  knocked  on  the  pitcher. 

Miss  Ada  appeared  from  the  dressing  room, 
fluttering  an  open  fan. 


6o  The  American  Diary 

How  ridiculously  she  stepped  ! 

It  was  the  way  Miss  What's-her-name  acted 
in  "The  Geisha,"  she  said. 

She  was  much  taller  than  little  me.  The 
kimono  scarcely  reached  to  her  shoes.  I  have 
never  seen  such  an  absurd  show  in  my  life. 

I  was  tittering. 

The  charming  Ada  fanned  and  giggled  in- 
cessantly in  supposed-to-be  Japanese  chic. 

"  What  have  I  to  say,  Morning  Glory  ?  " 
she  said,  looking  up. 

"  I  don't  know,  dear  girl !  "   I  jerked. 

Then  we  both  laughed. 

Ada  caught  my  neck  by  her  arm.  She 
squandered  her  kisses  on  me. 

(It  was  my  first  taste  of  the  kiss.) 

We  two  young  ladies  in  wanton  garments 
rolled  down  happily  on  the  floor. 

2nd — If  I  could  be  a  gentleman  for  just  one 
day ! 

I  would  rest  myself  on  the  hospitable  chair 
of  a  barber  shop — barber  shop,  drug  store  and 
candy  store  are  three  beauties  on  the  street — 
like  a  prince  of  leisure,  and  dream  something 
great,  while  the  man  is  busy  with  a  razor. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  61 

I  am  envious  of  the  gentleman  who  may 
bathe  in  such  a  purple  hour. 

I  never  rest. 

American  ladies  neither ! 

Each  one  of  them  looks  worried  as  if  she 
expected  the  door-bell  any  moment. 

I  suppose  it  is  the  penalty  of  being  a  woman. 

3rd — My  little  heart  was  flooded  with  pa- 
triotism. 

It  is  our  Mikado's  birthday. 

I  sang  "  The  Age  of  Our  Sovereign."  I 
shouted  "  Ten  thousand  years  !  Banzai !  Ban 
banzai ! " 

My  uncle  and  I  hurried  to  the  Japanese 
Consulate  to  celebrate  this  grand  day. 

4th — The  gentlemen  of  San  Francisco  are 
gallant. 

They  never  permit  the  ladies — even  a  black 
servant  is  in  the  honourable  list  of  "ladies" — 
to  stand  in  the  car. 

If  Oriental  gentlemen  could  demean  them- 
selves like  that  for  just  one  day  ! 

I  should  not  mind  a  bit  if  one  proposed  to 
me  even. 


62  The  American  Diary 

I  love  a  handsome  face. 

They  part  their  hair  in  the  middle.  They 
have  inherited  no  bad  habit  of  biting  their 
finger-nails.  I  suppose  they  offer  a  grace  be- 
fore each  meal.  Their  smile  isn't  sardonic, 
and  their  laughter  is  open. 

I  have  no  dispute  with  their  mustaches  and 
their  blue  eyes.  But  I  am  far  from  being  an 
admirer  of  their  red  faces. 

Japs  are  pygmies.  I  fear  that  the  Ameri- 
cans are  too  tall.  My  future  husband  is  not 
allowed  to  be  over  five  feet  five  inches.  His 
nose  should  be  of  the  cast  of  Robert  Steven- 
son's. 

Each  one  of  them  carries  a  high  look.  He 
may  be  the  President  at  the  next  election,  he 
seems  to  say.  How  mean  that  only  one  head 
is  in  demand ! 

A  directory  and  a  dictionary  are  kind.  The 
'Merican  husband  is  like  them,  I  imagine. 

I  have  no  gentleman  friend  yet. 

To  pace  alone  on  the  street  is  a  melancholy 
discarded  sight. 

What  do  you  do  if  your  shoe-string  comes 
untied? 

I  have  seen  a  gentleman  fingering  the  shoe- 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  63 

strings  of  a  lady.  How  glad  he  was  to  serve 
again,  when  she  said,  "  That's  too  tight !  " 

Shall  my  uncle  fill  such  a  part  ? 

Poor  uncle ! 

Old  company,  however,  isn't  style. 

He  is  forty-five. 

Why  can  I  not  choose  one  to  hire  from 
among  the  "bully"  young  men  loitering 
around  a  cigar  stand  ? 

5th — My  uncle  was  going  out  in  a  black 
frock-coat  and  tea-coloured  trousers.  I  insisted 
that  his  coat  and  trousers  didn't  match. 

How  can  a  man  be  so  ridiculous  ? 

I  declared  that  it  was  as  poor  taste  as  for  a 
darkey  to  wear  a  red  ribbon  in  her  smoky 
hair. 

Uncle  surrendered. 

He  said,  "  Hei,  hei,  hei  !" 

Goo'  boy ! 

He  dismissed  the  great  tea-colour. 

6th — We  had  a  shower. 

The  city  dipped  in  a  bath. 

The  pedestrians  threw  their  vaguely  delicate 
shadows  on  the  pavements.  The  ladies  volun- 
tarily permitted  the  gentlemen  to  review  their 


64  The  American  Diary 

legs.  If  I  were  in  command,  I  would  not  per- 
mit the  ladies  to  raise  an  umbrella  under  the 
"para  para"  of  a  shower.  Their  hastening 
figures  are  so  fascinating. 

The  shower  stopped.  The  pavements  were 
glossed  like  a  looking-glass.  The  windows 
facing  the  sun  scattered  their  sparkling  laugh- 
ter. 

How  beautiful ! 

I  am  perfectly  delighted  by  this  city. 

One  thing  that  disappoints  me,  however,  is 
that  Frisco  is  eternally  snowless. 

Without  snow  the  year  is  incomplete,  like  a 
departure  without  sayonara. 

Dear  snow  !     O  Yuki  San  ! 

Many  Winters  ago  I  modelled  a  doll  of 
snow,  which  was  supposed  to  be  a  gentleman. 

How  proud  I  used  to  be  when  I  stamped 
the  first  mark  with  my  high  ashida  on  the 
white  ground  before  anyone  else  ! 

I  wonder  how  Santa  Claus  will  array  him- 
self to  call  on  this  town. 

His  fur  coat  is  not  appropriate  at  all. 

7th — Why  didn't  I  come  to  Amerikey 
earlier — in  the  Summer  season  ? 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  65 

I  was  staring  sadly  at  my  purple  parasol 
against  the  wall  by  my  dresser. 

I  have  no  chance  to  show  it. 

I  have  often  been  told  that  I  look  so  beauti- 
ful under  it. 

8th — My  darling  O  Ada  came  in  a  carriage. 
Her  two-horsed  carriage  was  like  that  of  our 
Japanese  premier. 

She  is  the  daughter  of  a  banker. 

The  sun  shone  in  yellow. 

Ada's  complexion  added  a  brilliancy.  I 
was  shocked,  fearing  that  I  looked  awfully 
brown. 

Ada  said  that  I  was  "  perfectly  lovely," 
Can  I  trust  a  woman's  eulogy  ? 

I  myself  often  use  flattery. 

A  jewel  and  face-powder  were  not  the  only 
things,  I  said,  essential  to  woman. 

We  drove  to  the  Golden  Gate  Park  and 
then  to  the  Cliff  House. 

What  a  triumphant  sound  the  hoofs  of  the 
bay  horses  struck  !  I  fancied  the  horses  were 
a  poet,  they  were  rhyming. 

I  don't  like  the  automobile. 

Ada  was  sweet  as  could  be. 


66  The  American  Diary 

"  Tell  me  your  honourable  love  story  !  "  she 
chattered. 

I  did  only  blush. 

I  hadn't  the  courage  to  burst  my  secrecy. 

I  loved  once  truly. 

It  was  an  innocent  love  as  from  a  fairy 
book 

If  true  love  could  be  realised ! 

In  the  park  I  noticed  a  lady  who  scissored 
the  "  don't  touch  "  flowers  and  stepped  away 
with  a  saintly  air.  The  comical  fancy  came  to 
me  that  she  was  the  mother  of  a  policeman 
guarding  against  intruders. 

We  found  ourselves  in  the  Japanese  tea 
garden. 

A  tiny  musume  in  wooden  clogs  brought  us 
an  honourable  tea  and  o'senbe. 

The  grounds  were  an  imitation  of  Japanese 
landscape  gardening. 

Homesickness  ran  through  my  fibre. 

The  decorative  bridge,  a  stork  by  the  brook, 
and  the  dwarf  plants  hinted  to  me  of  my 
home  garden. 

A  sudden  vibration  of  shamisen  was  flung 
from  the  Japanese  cottage  close  by. 

"  Tenu,  tenu  !    Tenu,  tsurni  shann  ! " 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  67 

Who  was  the  player  ? 

When  I  sat  myself  by  the  ocean  on  the 
beach  I  found  some  packages  of  peanuts  right 
before  me. 

The  beautiful  Ada  began  to  snap  them. 

She  hummed  a  jaunty  ditty.  Her  head  in- 
clined pathetically  against  my  shoulder.  My 
hair,  stirred  by  the  sea  zephyrs,  patted  her 
cheek. 

She  said  the  song  was  "  My  Gal's  a  High- 
Born  Lady." 

Who  was  its  author  ?  Emerson  did  not 
write  it  surely. 

When  I  returned  to  the  hotel,  I  undertook 
to  place  on  the  wall  the  weather-torn  fragment 
of  cotton  which  I  had  picked  up  at  the  park. 

These  words  were  printed  on  it : 

"KEEP  OFF 
THE  GRASS." 

I  decided  to  mail  it  to  my  Japan,  requesting 
my  daddy  to  post  it  upon  my  garden  grasses — 
somewhere  by  the  old  cherry  tree. 

9th — To-day  is  the  third  anniversary  of  my 
grandmother's  death. 


68  The  American  Diary 

I  will  keep  myself  in  devotion. 

I  burned  the  incense  I  had  bought  from  a 
Chinaman.  I  watched  the  beautiful  gesticula- 
tion of  its  smoke. 

Good  Grandma  ! 

She  wished  she  could  live  long  enough  to 
be  present  at  my  wedding  ceremony.  She 
prayed  that  she  might  select  the  marriage 
equipage  for  me. 

I  am  alone  yet. 

I  wonder  if  she  knows — does  her  ghost 
peep  from  the  grasses  ? — that  I  am  drifting 
among  the  ijins  she  ever  loathed. 

I  don't  see  how  to  manage  myself  some- 
times— like  an  unskilful  fictionist  with  his 
heroine. 

When  shall  I  get  married  ? 


loth — I  yawned. 

Nothing  is  more  unbecoming  to  a  woman 
than  yawning. 

I  think  it  no  offence  to  swear  once  in  a 
while  in  one's  closet. 

I  was  alone. 

I  tore  to  pieces  my  "  Things  Seen  in  the 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  69 

Street,"  and  fed  the  waste-paper  basket  with 
them. 

The  basket  looked  so  hungry  without  any 
rubbish.  An  unkept  basket  is  more  pleasing, 
like  a  soiled  autograph-book. 

"  I  didn't  come  to  Amerikey  to  be  critical, 
that  is,  to  act  mean,  did  I  ?  "  I  said. 

I  must  remain  an  Oriental  girl,  like  a  cherry 
blossom  smiling  softly  in  the  Spring  moon- 
light. 

But  afterwards  I  felt  sorry  for  my  destruc- 
tion. 

I  thrust  my  hand  into  the  basket.  I  plucked 
them  up.  They  were  illegibly  as  follows  : 

"  women  coursing   like   a 

'rikisha   of  'Hama  their  children 

crying   at    home  left    some- 

where their   womanliness 

gentleman  with  stove-pipe  hat  blow- 

ing nose  with  his   fingers  young 

lady  kept     busy    chewing     gum 

while  walking.  If  you  once  show  such  a  grace 
at  Tokio,  you  shall  wait  fruitlessly  for  the 
marriage  offer. 

"  old  grandma  in  gay  red  skirt 


7o  The  American  Diary 

aged  man  arm-in-arm  with  wife 
so  young  What  a  martyrdom 

to  marry  for  G-O-L-D  !  police- 

man has  no 

"  San  Francisco  is  a  beautiful  city,  but 
Vertisements  of  '  The  Girl  From  Paris ' 

W-       -d's  Beer 
with  the  watches  hanging  on  their  breasts 

God    bless   you,    red    necktie 
gentleman  woman  at    the  corner 

chattering  like  a  street  politician." 

And  I  missed  some  other  hundred  lines. 

i  ith — A  letter  from  the  minister  arrived. 

(I'd  be  a  postman,  by  the  way,  if  I  were  a 
man.  A  noble  work  that  is  to  deliver  around 
the  love  and  "  gokigen  ukagai.") 

I  clipped  off  the  Mexican  stamp. 

I  will  make  a  stamp  book  for  my  boy  who 
may  be  born  when  I  become  a  wife. 

Before  opening  the  letter  I  pressed  it  to  my 
ear.  My  imaginative  ear  heard  his  illustrious 
"  Ha,  ha,  ha "  rolling  out. 

How  I  missed  his  happy  laughter  ! 

Can  he  now  pronounce  a  "  How  do?"  in 
Mexican  ? 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  7 1 

1 2th — It  surprises  me  to  learn  that  many  an 
American  is  born  and  dies  in  a  hotel. 

Such  a  life — however  large  rooms  you  may 
possess — is  not  distinguishable,  in  my  opinion, 
from  that  of  a  bird  in  a  cage. 

Is  hotel-living  a  recent  fashion  ? 

Don't  say  so  ! 

The  business  locality — like  the  place  where 
this  Palace  Hotel  takes  its  seat — does  not 
afford  a  stomachful  of  respectable  air. 

I  preferred  some  hospitable  boarding  house 
in  a  quiet  street,  where  I  might  even  step  up 
and  down  in  nude  feet.  I  wished  to  occupy  a 
chamber  where  the  morning  sun  could  steal  in 
and  shake  my  sleepy  little  head  with  golden 
fingers  as  my  beloved  mama  might  do. 

We  will  move  to  the  "  high-toned  "  boarding 
house  of  Mrs.  Willis  this  afternoon. 

Her  house  is  placed  on  the  high  hill  of 
California  Street. 

I  am  grateful  there  is  no  car  quaking  along 
there. 

My  uncle  says  I  shall  have  a  whole  lot  of 
millionaires  for  neighbours. 

California  must  be  one  dignified  street. 

The  Chinese  colony  is  close  at  hand  from 


72  The  American  Diary 

Mrs.  Willis', — the  exotic  exposition  brilliant 
with  green  and  yellow  colour.  The  incense 
surges.  So  cute  is  the  sparrow-eyed  Asiatic 
girl — such  a  "karako" — with  a  small  cue  on 
only  one  side  of  the  head.  Dear  Oriental 
town  ! 

Good  luck,  I  pray,  my  Palace  Hotel  ! 

Sayonara,  my  graceful  butlers  ! 

I  shall  hear  no  more  of  their  sweet  "  Yes, 
Madam  ! "  They  talk  gently  as  a  lottery- 
seller. 

The  more  they  bow  and  smile  the  more  you 
will  press  the  button  of  tips. 

They  are  so  funny. 

So  long,  everybody  ! 

1 3th — The  savour  of  the  air  is  rich  without 
being  heavy. 

The  Tokio  atmosphere  emits  a  lassitude. 

It's  natural  that  the  Japs  are  prone  to 
languor. 

A  good  while  ago  I  pushed  down  my  win- 
dow facing  the  Bay  of  San  Francisco.  I 
leaned  on  the  sill,  my  face  propped  up  by 
both  my  hands. 

The  grand  scenery  absorbed  my  whole  soul. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  73 

"  Ideal  place,  isn't  it  ? "  I  emphasised. 

The  bay  was  dyed  in  profound  blue. 

The  Oakland  boat  joggled  on  happily  as 
from  a  fairy  isle.  My  visionary  eyes  caught 
the  heavenly  flock  of  seagulls  around  it. 

If  I  could  fly  in  their  company ! 

The  low  mountains  over  the  bay  looked  in- 
expressively comfortable,  like  one  sleeping 
under  a  warm  blanket. 

The  moon-night  view  from  here  must  be 
wonderful. 

I  felt  a  new  stream  of  blood  beginning  to 
swell  within  my  body. 

I  buzzed  a  silly  song. 

I  crept  into  my  uncle's  room. 

I  stole  one  stalk  of  his  cigarettes. 

I  bit  it,  aping  Mr.  Uncle,  when  my  door 
banged. 


1 4th — I  bustled  back  to  my  room. 
My  breast  throbbed. 

A   naked  woman   in  an  oil  painting  stood 
before  me  in  the  hall. 

Is  Mrs.  Willis  a  lady  worthy  of  respect  ? 
It  is  nothing  but  an  insulting  stroke  to  an 


74  The  American  Diary 

Oriental  lady — yes  sir,  I'm  a  lady — to  expose 
such  an  obscenity. 

I  brought  down  one  of  my  crape  haoris, 
raven-black  in  hue,  with  blushing  maple  leaves 
dispersed  on  the  sleeves,  and  cloaked  the 
honourable  picture. 

My  haori  wasn't  long  enough. 

The  feet  of  the  nude  woman  were  all  seen. 

I  have  not  the  least  objection  to  the  un- 
draped  feet.  They  were  faultless  in  shape. 

I  myself  am  free  to  bestow  a  glimpse  of  my 
beautiful  feet. 

I  turned  the  key  of  my  door. 

I  stripped  off  my  shoes  and  my  stockings 
also. 

Dear  red  silken  stockings  ! 

I  scrutinised  my  feet  for  a  while.  Then  I 
asked  myself  : 

"  Which  is  lovelier,  my  feet  or  those  in  the 
painting  ?  " 

1 5th — I  couldn't  rest  last  night. 

The  long  wail  of  a  horn  somewhere  in  the 
distance — at  the  gate  of  the  ocean  perhaps- 
haunted  me.  The  night  was  foggy. 

I  had  a  wild  dream. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  75 

The  fogs  were  not  withdrawn  this  morning. 

I  was  discouraged,  I  had  to  go  out  in  my 
best  gown. 

Wasn't  it  a  shame  that  two  buttons  jumped 
out  when  I  hurried  to  dress  up  ? 

"  Are  the  buttons  secure  ? "  is  my  first 
worry  and  the  last. 

Why  don't  Meriken  inventors  take  up  the 
subject  of  buttonless  clothes  ? 

Woman  cannot  be  easy  while  her  dress  is 
fastened  by  only  buttons. 

1 6th — I  wish  I  could  pay  my  bill  with  a 
bank  check. 

Have  I  money  in  the  bank  with  my  name  ? 

I  fancied  it  a  great  idea  to  sleep  with  a  big 
bank  book  under  the  pillow. 

I  decided  to  save  my  money  hereafter. 

How  often  have  I  expressed  my  hatred  of 
an  economical  woman  ! 

I  detested  the  clinking  "  charin  charan  "  of 
small  coins  in  my  purse.  Very  hard  I  tried 
to  get  from  them. 

Extravagance  is  a  folly.  Folly  is  only  a 
mild  expression  for  crime. 

I  deducted  ten  dollars  from  the  fifty  that  I 


76  The  American  Diaiy 

had  settled  for  my  new  street  gown.  I 
dropped  a  card  notifying  my  ladies'  tailor 
that  I  had  altered  my  mind  for  the  second 
price. 

"  Ten  already  for  the  bank  ! "  I  said. 

I  took  it  to  the  "  Yokohama  Shokin  Ginko  " 
of  this  city. 

I  was  given  a  little  book  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life. 

I  thought  myself  quite  a  wealthy  woman 
preserving  my  money  in  the  bank. 

I  pressed  the  book  to  my  face.  I  held  it 
close  to  my  bosom  as  a  tiny  girl  with  a  new  doll. 

And  I  smiled  into  a  looking-glass. 

1 7th — I  went  to  the  gallery  of  the  photo- 
grapher Taber,  and  posed  in  Nippon  "  pera 
pera." 

The  photographer  spread  before  me  many 
pictures  of  the  actress  in  the  part  of  "  Geisha." 

She  was  absurd. 

I  cannot  comprehend  where  'Mericans  get 
the  conception  that  Jap  girls  are  eternally 
smiling  puppets. 

Are  we  crazy  to  smile  without  motive  ? 

What  an  untidy  presence  ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  77 

She  didn't  even  fasten  the  front  of  her 
kimono. 

Charm  doesn't  walk  together  with  disorder 
under  the  same  Japanese  parasol. 

And  I  had  the  honour  to  be  presented  to  an 
extraordinary  mode  in  her  hair. 

It  might  be  entitled  "  ghost  style."  It  sug- 
gested an  apparition  in  the  "  Botan  Toro " 
played  by  kikugoro. 

The  photographer  handed  me  a  fan. 

Alas  !  It  was  a  Chinese  fan  in  a  crude  mixt- 
ure of  colour. 

He  urged  me  to  carry  it. 

I  declined,  saying  : 

"  Nobody  fans  in  cool  November  !  " 

1 8th — We  had  a  laugh. 

Ada,  my  sweet  singer  of  "  My  Gal's  a 
High-Born  Lady,"  accompanied  me  to  a  mat- 
inee of  one  vaudeville. 

This  is  the  age  of  quick  turn,  sudden  flashes. 

The  long  show  has  ceased  to  be  the  fash- 
ion. Modern  people  are  tired  of  the  slowness 
of  old  times  which  was  once  supposed  to  be 
seriousness. 

Could  anything  be  prouder  than  the  face  of 


78  The  American  Diary 

the  acrobat  retiring  after  a  perilous  per- 
formance ? 

Woman  tumbler  ! 

I  wondered  how  Meriken  ladies  could  enjoy 
looking  at  such  a  degeneration  of  woman. 

I  was  glad,  however,  that  I  did  not  see  any 
snake-charmer. 

What  a  delightful  voice  that  negro  had  ! 
Who  could  imagine  that  such  a  silvery  sound 
could  come  from  such  a  midnight  face  ?  It 
was  like  clear  water  out  of  the  ground. 

I  was  struck  by  a  fancy. 

I  sprang  up. 

I  attempted  to  imitate  the  high-kick  dance. 

I  fell  down  abruptly. 

"  Jap's  short  leg  is  no  use  in  Amerikey — 
can't  achieve  one  thing.  I  am  frankly  tired 
of  mine,"  I  grumbled. 

1 9th — The  Sunday  chime  was  the  voice  of 
an  angel.  The  city  turned  religious. 

Mrs.  Willis — I  had  no  curiosity  about  her 
first  name  ;  it  is  meaningless  for  the  "  Mrs."  of 
middle  age — indulged  in  chat  with  me. 

If  I  say  she  was  "sociable  "  ? — it  sounds  so 
graceful. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  79 

She  announced  herself  a  bigot  of  poetry. 
She  was  bending  to  make  a  full  poetical 
demonstration. 

Of  course  it  was  more  pleasing  than  a 
mourning-gowned  narrative  of  her  lamented 
husband.  (I  suppose  he  is  dead,  as  divorce  is 
too  commonplace.) 

But  it  were  treachery,  if  I  were  put  under  her 
long  recital  of  the  insignificant  works  of  local 
poets. 

Tasukatta  wa  ! 

A  little  girl  came  as  a  relief. 

Dorothy  !  She  is  a  boarder  of  Mrs.  Willis', 
the  golden-haired  daughter  of  Mrs.  Browning. 

(Mrs.  Browning  was  a  disappointment,  how- 
ever. I  fancied  she  might  be  a  relative  of  the 
poet  Browning.  I  asked  about  it.  Her  re- 
sponse was  an  unsympathetic  "  No  ! ") 

"  O'  hayo  ! "  Dorothy  said,  spattering  over 
me  her  familiarity. 

It  takes  only  an  hour  to  be  friends  with  the 
Meriken  girl,  while  it  is  the  work  of  a  year 
with  a  Japanese  musume. 

"Great  girl !  Your  Nippon  language  is  per- 
fect !  Would  you  like  to  learn  more  ? "  I  said. 

"I'd  like  it,"  was  her  retort. 


8o  The  American  Diary 

Then  we  slipped  to  my  room. 

I  wonder  how  Mrs.  Willis  fared  without  an 
audience ! 

I  was  sorry,  thinking  that  she  might  regard 
me  as  an  uncivil  Jap. 

"  Chon  kina  !     Chon  kina  ! " 

Thus  Dorothy  repeated.  It  was  a  Japanese 
-song,  she  said,  which  the  geisha  girls  sung  in 
"  The  Geisha." 

Tat,  tat,  tat,  stop,  Dorothy  ! 

Truly  it  was  the  opening  sound — not  the 
words — of  a  nonsensical  song. 

I  presume  that  "  The  Geisha  "  is  practising 
a  plenteous  injustice  to  Dai  Nippon. 

I  recalled  one  Meriken  consul  who  jolted 
out  that  same  song  once  at  a  party. 

He  became  no  more  a  gentleman  to  me  after 
that. 

2oth — I  pasted  my  little  card  on  my  door. 
I  wrote  on  it  "  Japanese  Lessons  Given." 
I  gazed  at  it. 
I  was  exceedingly  happy. 

2ist — A  gardener  came  to  fix  our  lawn. 
There    is    nothing    lovelier   than    verdant 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  8 1 

grasses  trimmed  neatly.  They  are  like  the 
short  skirt  of  the  Meriken  little  girl. 

We  women  could  be  angels,  I  thought,  if 
our  speech  lapped  justly.  Women  talk  super- 
fluously. I  do  often. 

What  language  did  that  gardener  use  ? 

It  must  be  the  English  of  Carlyle,  I  said,  for 
its  meaning  was  intangible. 

I  discovered,  by  and  by,  that  German  Eng- 
lish was  his  honourable  choice. 

My  eyes  could  express  more  than  my  Eng- 
lish uttered  in  Nippon  voice.  My  gestures 
helped  to  make  my  meaning  plain. 

He  became  my  friend. 

He  carried  a  red  square  of  cotton  to  wipe 
his  mouth,  like  the  furoshiki  in  which  a  Jap- 
anese country  "  O'  ba  san "  wraps  her  New 
Year's  present. 

And  again  as  he  was  leaving  I  saw  a  red 
thing  around  his  neck. 

Was  it  not  the  same  furoshiki  which  served 
for  his  nose  ? 

It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  to  play  amateur 
gardener. 

The  season  wasn't  fitting  for  such  a  per- 
formance, however. 


82  The  American  Diary 

A  large  summer  hat !  That  was  the  custom- 
ary attire. 

But  my  light-hearted  straw  one  with  its 
laughing  bouquet  was  not  adapted  to  Novem- 
ber, however  gorgeously  the  sun  might  shine. 

And  it's  sheer  stupidity  to  track  after  a 
tradition. 

I  wound  a  large  flapping  piece  of  black  crape 
about  my  head.  (How  awfully  becoming  the 
garb  of  a  Catholic  nun  would  be  !  I  do  not 
know  what  is  dear,  if  it  is  not  the  rosary.  A 
writhing  rope  around  the  waist  is  celestial 
carelessness.) 

I  appeared  on  the  lawn,  but  without  a 
sprinkler  and  rake.  It  would  have  been  too 
theatrical  to  carry  them. 

I  gathered  the  small  stones  from  amid  the 
grasses  into  a  wheelbarrow  near  by. 

Just  as  my  new  enterprise  was  beginning 
to  seem  so  delightful,  the  luncheon  gong 
gonged. 

My  uncle  goggled  from  the  hall,  and  said  : 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  I  was  afraid  you 
had  eloped." 

"  I've  no  chance  yet  to  meet  a  boy,"  I  spoke 
in  an  undertone. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  83 

Afterward  I  was  ashamed  that  I  had  been 
so  awkwardly  sincere. 

22nd — There  was  one  thing  that  I  wanted 
to  test. 

My  uncle  went  out.  I  understood  that  he 
would  not  be  back  for  some  hours. 

I  found  myself  in  his  room,  pulling  out  his 
drawer. 

"  Isn't  it  elegant  ?  "  I  exclaimed,  picking  up 
his  dress-suit. 

At  last  I  had  an  opportunity  to  examine  how 
I  would  look  in  a  tapering  coat. 

Gentleman's  suit  is  fascinating. 

"  Where  is  his  silk  hat  ?  "   I  said. 

I  reached  up  my  arms  to  the  top  shelf  of  a 
closet,  standing  on  the  chair. 

The  door  swung  open. 

Tamageta !  My  liver  was  crushed  by  the 
alarm. 

A  chambermaid  threw  her  suspicious  smile 
at  me. 

Alas! 

My  adventure  failed. 

23rd — I  mean  no  one  else  but  O  Ada  San, 
when  I  say  "  my  sweet  girl." 


84  The  American  Diary 

She  was  tremendously  nice,  giving  a  tea- 
party  in  my  honour. 

The  star  actress  doesn't  appear  on  the  stage 
from  the  first  of  the  first  act.  I  thought  I 
would  present  myself  a  bit  later  at  the  party, 
when  they  were  tattling  about  my  delay. 

I  delight  in  employing  such  little  dramatic 
arts. 

I  dressed  all  in  silk.  It's  proper,  of  course, 
for  a  Japanese  girl. 

I  chose  cherry  blossoms  in  preference  to 
roses  for  my  hat.  Roses  are  acceptable,  how- 
ever, I  said  in  my  second  thought,  for  they  are 
given  a  thorn  against  affronters. 

I  went  to  Miss  Ada's  looking  my  best. 

They  —  six  young  ladies  in  a  bunch  — 
stretched  out  their  hands.  I  was  coaxed  by 
their  hailing  smile. 

Ada  kissed  me. 

I  had  no  charming  manner  in  receiving  a 
kiss  before  the  people  no  more  than  in  giving 
one.  I  blushed  miserably.  I  knew  I  was 
bungling. 

O  Morning  Glory,  you  are  one  century 
late  ! 

They  besieged  me. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  85 

None  of  them  was  so  pretty  as  Ada.  Beauty 
is  rare,  I  perceive,  like  good  tweezers  or  ideal 
men. 

I  distributed  my  Japanese  cards. 

All  of  my  new  friends  held  them  upside 
down. 

Is  it  a  modern  vogue  to  be  ignorant? 

Ada  played  skilfully  her  role  of  hostess, 
which  was  a  middle-aged  part.  She  didn't  even 
spill  the  tea  in  serving.  Her  "  Sugar  ?  Two 
lumps  ?  "  sounded  fit.  She  divided  her  enter- 
taining eye-flashes  among  us. 

Tea  is  the  thing  for  afternoon,  when  woman 
is  excused  if  she  be  silly. 

We  all  undressed  our  too-tight  coat  of 
rhetoric  in  the  sipping  of  tea. 

We  laughed,  and  laughed  harder,  not  seeing 
what  we  were  laughing  at. 

I  couldn't  catch  all  of  their  names. 

Such  a  delicious  name  as  "  Lily "  was 
absurdly  given  to  a  girl  with  red  blotches  on 
her  face. 

(A  few  blemishes  are  a  fascination,  however, 
like  slang  thrown  in  the  right  place.) 

Her  flippancy  was  like  the  "  buku  buku  "  of 
a  stream. 


86  The  American  Diary 

Lightness  didn't  match  with  her  heavy 
physique. 

"  How  lovely  an  earthquake  must  be  !  "  she 
chirruped.  "Shall  I  go  to  Japan  just  on 
that  account?  A  jolly  moment  I  had  last 
February.  A  baby  earthquake  visited  here, 
as  you  know.  I  was  drinking  tea.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  I  let  the  cup  tumble  on 
to  my  pink  dress.  I  prayed  a  whole  week, 
nevertheless,  to  be  called  again." 

Woman  has  nothing  to  do  with  a  hideous 
make-up.  Miss  Lily  should  not  select  a  pink 
hue. 

"  You  are  awful ! "  I  said. 

I  told  about  the  horror  of  a  certain  famous 
Japanese  earthquake.  They  all  breathed  out 
"  Good  heavens  !" 

There  was  one  second  of  silence. 

Ada  struck  a  gushing  melody  on  the  piano. 

The  lively  Meriken  ladies  prompted  them- 
selves to  frisk  about. 

I  was  ready  to  cry  in  my  destitution. 

One  girl  hauled  me  up  violently  by  the  hand. 

"  Come  and  dance  ! " 

Her  arm  crawled  around  my  waist,  while 
she  directed  : 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  87 

"  Right  foot— now,  left  !  " 
I   returned    to    Mrs.    Willis',    my   thoughts 
absorbed  in  a  dancing  academy. 

"  I  must  learn  how  to  skip,"  I  said. 

24th — I  hate  the  alarm  clock,  simply  because 
it  is  always  so  punctual. 

"  I  was  too  late"  is  a  delightful  expression. 

Mrs.  Willis'  breakfast  is  at  quarter-past 
eight !  " 

Isn't  that  "  quarter-past  "  interesting  ? 

And  I  can  never  be  ready  before  nine. 

25th — I  dragged  my  uncle  off  to  the  Chute 
to  enrich  my  store  of  zoology. 

"  One  gape  more,  Uncle,  to  count  up  one 
dozen  ! "  I  said,  and  pulled  his  mustache  in  the 
car. 

It  was  lucky  that  no  one  saw  my  act. 

Poor  Oji  San  !  Playing  chaperon  is  not  a 
very  promising  occupation,  is  it  ? 

I  stood  by  the  "happy  family"  of  monkeys. 
I  tried  to  descry  their  point  of  view  in  ora- 
tions. 

I  gave  it  up. 

The  vain  Miss  Polly  worked  hard  to  bring 


88  The  American  Diary 

everybody  to  an  understanding  with  one  eter- 
nal "Hello,  dear!" 

I  found  such  grace  in  the  elephant  when  he 
waved  his  honourable  trunk. 

The  stupid  Mr.  Elephant  wasn't  stupid  a 
bit  in  accepting  my  present. 

How  philosophically  he  gazed  at  me  !  Very 
likely  I  was  the  first  Jap  girl  to  his  audience. 

What  respectable  eyes ! 

"  You'll  bankrupt  yourself  in  peanuts,"  my 
uncle  warned. 

26th — A  white  apron  on  my  black  dress 
makes  me  so  cute. 

I  am  just  suited  to  be  a  chambermaid.  Shall 
I  volunteer  as  a  servant  ? 

I  bought  an  apron. 

To-day  is  house-cleaning  day. 

I  kept  busy  a  good  while  arranging  my 
theatrical  costume  as  a  maid. 

Wasn't  it  fun  ? 

I  was  ready  to  scrub  the  floor,  when  I 
heard  "kotsu  kotsu,"  on  my  door. 

It  was  Annie  with  a  broom. 

"  I'm  your  help.  Just  a  moment !  I  have 
forgotten  the  finishing  glance  in  my  mirror." 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  89 

27th — I  have  been  studying  the  catechism. 

I  am  afraid  to  go  to  church,  for  the  minister 
may  put  many  a  question  to  me. 

Is  Miss  Ada  a  dutiful  church-goer  ? 

I  don't  think  so. 

She  would  rather  mumble  a  nigger  song  than 
a  chapter  from  the  Bible. 

I  will  ask  her  a  few  things  from  the  cate- 
chism at  my  first  opportunity. 

28th — "  Hand  me  your  cup  after  you  are 
done  with  your  tea.!  "  Mrs.  Browning  requested. 
"  I  will  ponder  on  your  fortune." 

"  How  delightful !  "  I  said. 

My  fortune  ? 

I  remembered  how  I  used  to  scatter  my 
pocket  money  among  the  fortune-tellers, 
pleased  to  be  informed  of  a  lot  of  nice  things. 

What  meaning  she  could  find  in  a  cup ! 

I  felt  like  a  mother  with  her  children  already 
in  bed,  when  I  dropped  my  spoon  into  my 
tea. 

I  felt  mistress  of  the  situation. 

Was  there  ever  anything  more  welcome  than 
to  learn  your  fortune  ? 

"  A  young  American    (rich,   very  rich — in- 


90  The  American  Diary 

deed)  will  win  your  affection.  The  marriage 
will  be  a  happy  one,"  she  prophesied. 

Is  that  so  ? 

Life  is  becoming  very  interesting. 

I  wonder  where  my  would-be  husband  is 
seeking  me. 

Shall  I  advertise  in  a  paper  ? 

How? 

If  my  first-rate  picture  by  Mr.  Taber  were 
printed,  it  would  be  a  whole  thing  in  such  a 
business. 

I  thought  the  picture  beautiful  enough  to 
sell  at  any  stationer's  of  U.  S.  A. 

How  many  thousand  could  I  sell  in  a  week? 

Could  I  make  money  out  of  it  ?  Some  de- 
cent fortune,  I  mean,  of  course. 


2  Qth  —  Ho,  ho,  such  a  day  ! 

I  was  aroused  by  the  roar  of  a  milk-wagon 
early  in  the  morning. 

I  sought  a  pin  in  vain. 

I  tore  my  skirt  on  a  sneering  nail  at  the 
door. 

I  upset  my  flower-vase. 

I  sat  by  my  window.  A  vegetable  pedlar 
howled  to  me,  "  Potatoes  ?  Potatoes  ?  " 


of  a.  Japanese  Girl  91 

I  couldn't  recall  a  sweet  dream  I  had  last 
night. 

The  clamour  of  a  Chinese  funeral  passed 
under  my  room.  The  carriages  were  packed 
with  hired  "  crying  women."  Isn't  it  a  farce  ? 

I  went  out.  My  street-car  ran  off  the 
track. 

A  fire-engine  deafened  me. 

I  passed  by  an  undertaker's.  It  was  cold 
like  a  grave. 

The  sight  stunned  me. 

3Oth — Is  my  nose  high  enough  ? 

I  bought  a  pair  of  "  nose  spectacles." 

Those  with  wires  to  circle  the  ears,  which 
are  Oriental  (that  is  to  say  old-fashioned), 
would  suit  even  a  noseless  Formosa  Chinee. 

But  how  many  Japs  could  show  themselves 
ready  for  nose  spectacles  ? 

The  optician  asked  if  they  were  for  myself. 

He  was  a  trifle  uncertain  about  my  nose, 
I  suppose. 

"  No  !     For  my  friend,"  I  said. 

It  was  a  white  lie. 

I  blushed  as  if  I  had  committed  a  heavy 
crime. 


92  The  American  Diary 

I  hoped  I  had  not. 

I  put  my  new  spectacles  on  my  nose,  as 
soon  as  I  returned  to  my  room.  Very  well 
they  stayed.  Mother  Nature  was  specially 
kind  to  me. 

But  what  a  depression — also  what  torture — 
I  felt  from  their  clutch  ! 

I  was  pleased,  however,  seeing  myself  some- 
what scholarly. 

Aren't  spectacles  an  emblem  of  wisdom  ? 

The  first  requirement  to  be  a  critic  should 
be  spectacles.  The  second  is  a  pessimistic 
smile,  of  course. 

My  mirror  told  me  that  I  looked  quite 
modern. 

"  Book  ! "  I  exclaimed. 

I  must  see  what  effect  I  could  produce  with 
a  book  on  my  lap. 

I  leaped  from  the  chair  to  fetch  one. 

My  spectacles  dropped  from  my  honourable 
nose  on  to  the  hearthstone.  My  nose  was 
exceedingly  stupid. 

Alas,  and  alas ! 

The  spectacles  were  crushed  to  pieces. 

I  was  broken  also. 

I  buried  my  face  in  the  pillow  for  some  time. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  93 

Then  I  said  :  "  I'm  not  short  in  my  sight. 
I  have  no  use  for  them  except  for  fun." 

I  wiped  my  disturbed  eyes  with  a  handker- 
chief. My  finger  felt  the  rude  marks  printed 
on  both  sides  of  my  nose. 

Dec.  ist — I  bought  a  Louisiana  lottery 
ticket  through  Annie. 

Like  any  other  domestic  girl,  she  has  no 
key  to  her  mouth.  She  is  like  a  sentence 
that  has  forgotten  to  add  the  period. 

I  begged  all  sorts  of  gods  to  drop  the  cap- 
ital prize  on  me. 

Thirty  thousand  dollars  !     Think ! 

How  shall  I.  manage  with  them  when  I  have 
won  ?  . 

2nd — If  I  were  a  painter  ! 

My  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  dying  sun. 
Its  solemnity  was  like  the  passing  of  a  mighty 
king. 

Some  time  glided  by. 

My  thought  was  pursuing  the  sun. 

The  twilight ! 

Oh,  twilight  pacifying  me  as  with  the  odour 
from  a  magical  palace  ! 


94  The  American  Diary 

Hush ! 

The  melody  of  a  piano  effused  from  my 
neighbour. 

The  best  thing  in  the  world  is  to  play 
music.  The  very  best  is  to  listen  to  the  pro- 
fuse melody  evoked  by  a  master. 

Was  it  a  superb  execution  ? 

My  soul  was  dissolved,  anyhow,  in  the 
rapture. 

I  left  my  uncle's  room  where  I  saw  the 
grand  sun  pass  away. 

I  put  me  in  my  bed,  because  my  visionary 
mood  was  not  to  be  stirred  for  the  world,  and 
because  I  wished  to  dream  a  romance  without 
the  delay  of  a  moment. 

But  I  could  not  slumber. 

And  I  missed  my  dinner. 

I  petitioned  my  uncle  to  step  out  into  the 
street  for  my  beloved  chestnuts. 

Dear  Italian  chestnut  vendor  ! 

I  never  pass  by  without  buying. 

3rd — We  start  to-morrow  for  Los  Angeles 
of  Southern  California. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Schuyler  have  invited  us  to 
spend  some  weeks  with  them. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  95 

The   gentleman  was  the  former  consul  at 

o 

Yokohama.      My  uncle  is  his  intimate  friend. 

My  new  trunk  was  brought  in  from  the 
store. 

It  bears  my  name  in  Roman  of  commanding 
type. 

I  stared  at  the  characters  as  upon  an  ancient 
writing  whose  meaning  could  only  be  im- 
agined. 

"  Doesn't  '  Miss  Morning  Glory  '  suggest 
that  the  owner  is  a  charming  young  lady  ?  " 

My  little  smile  smiled,  as  I  thought  that  it 
would,  of  course. 

A  new  trunk,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  lacks  a 
historical  look.  An  old  one  is  more  gratify- 
ing, like  old  brocade  or  an  old  ring. 

Au  revoir,  my  Ada  ! 

South-bound  train,  4th — I  was  lavish  of  my 
art  of  "  bothering." 

My  poor  uncle — my  eternally  "  poor  uncle  " 
was  the  victim.  I  wanted  some  diversion  at 
any  price. 

His  face  scowled  as  I  bored  him  with  my 
successive  questions. 

I  thought  his  irritated  face  fascinating. 


96  The  American  Diary 

When  I  presented  another  question,  he  was 
droning  a  genteel  snore. 

I  tv/isted  an  edge  of  a  newspaper  into  a 
roll.  I  thrust  it  into  his  nose. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  his  starting. 

"  Bikkurishita  ! "  he  exclaimed. 

Then  he  begged  to  be  allowed  some  chance 
to  rest. 

This  is  a  "  bad  year  for  cucumbers  "  for  him. 
He  made  a  mistake  in  accompanying  me  on 
Meriken  Kenbutsu. 

Honestly  I  have  to  behave  nicely. 

My  opening  question  to  Uncle  was:  "  What's 
the  derivation  of  '  damn  '  ?  " 

"  Imperialism  "  was  my  last. 

I  have  a  high  regard  for  the  people  digni- 
fied by  using  the  capital  "  I  "  for  the  personal 
pronoun. 

But  if  I  were  the  President  I  should  not  wish 
to  be  addressed  with  that  hackneyed,  unroman- 
tic  "  Mr." 

The  cartoonists  making  sport  of  the  Presi- 
dent shock  me. 

How  big-hearted  the  President  is  ! 

Those  "  devils  "  would  be  beheaded  in  the 
Orient. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  97 

Los  Angeles,  5th — No  one  bangs  the  door 
at  Schuyler's. 

The  servants  drop  their  eyes  meekly  before 
they  speak. 

A  well-bred  atmosphere  circulates. 

A  woman  over  forty-five  is  nothing  if  she 
isn't  motherly  enough  to  let  one  feel  at  home. 
Mrs.  Schuyler's  silence  is  a  smile.  I  loved 
her  from  my  first  glance.  I  thought  I  could 
ask  her  to  wash  my  hair  some  sunny  day.  I 
could  fancy  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  im- 
merse myself  in  her  chat — such  sort  of  talk  as 
an  old-bonneted  "  how  to  keep  house" — while 
I  was  drying  my  hair  in  the  indolence  of  a 
sea-nymph.  Modern  topic  is  like  black  coffee, 
it  is  too  stimulating.  There  is  nothing  dearer 
than  a  domestic  subject. 

I  have  no  hesitation  in  accepting  her  as  my 
Meriken  mother. 

I  am  positive  I  would  feel  more  comfortable 
if  I  had  one  in  this  country. 

How  good-naturedly  she  was  fattened  ! 

A  somewhat  stout  woman  looks  so  proper 
for  a  mother. 

I  wished  I  could  lean  on  her  plump  shoulder 
from  the  back  in  Japanese  girl's  way,' and  play 


98  The  American  Diary 

with  her  hair,  and  ask  a  few  innocent  questions 
like  "  What  have  I  to  eat  for  dinner  ?  " 

She  talked  about  the  Japanese  woman, 
principally  praising  her  shapely  mouth. 

I  felt  conceitedly,  because  I  was  given  one 
classical  little  mouth,  if  I  had  nothing  else  to 
be  noticed. 

Mr.  Schuyler  grasped  my  hand  ever  so 
hard.  My  hand  was  buried  in  his  palm. 
His  manner  was  courteously  boyish. 

His  body  is  erect  like  a  redwood. 

Such  an  old  gentleman  gives  me  the  im- 
pression of  another  race  from  the  divine 
realm  of  everlasting  youth.  A  Jap  after  fifty 
is  capped  with  "  retired." 

But  the  work  of  the  American  gentleman  is 
only  finished  when  he  dies. 

Great  Meriken  Jin  ! 

Mr.  Schuyler  shows  more  civility  to  his 
servants  than  to  his  wife. 

Here  I  can  study  the  typical  household  of 
America's  best  caste. 

6th — "Anata  donata?" 

I  rubbed  my  dreamy  eyes,  scanning  my  room. 

Who  was  the  Japanese  speaker  ? 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  99 

I  crept  to  the  door,  and  opened  it  slightly. 

Not  a  soul  was  there. 

I  heard  the  trivial  clatter  of  the  kitchen  step- 
ping up. 

I  dipped  into  my  bed  again.  I  smiled  scepti- 
cally, thinking'that  I  must  have  been  dreaming. 

"  Gokigen  ikaga  ?" 

I  was  addressed  again  by  the  same  voice. 

I  said  that  there  was  positively  some  mischief 
in  my  room. 

I  leaped  down  from  the  bed. 

I  inspected  my  slippers.  I  made  sure  there 
was  nothing  strange  under  the  pictures  on  the 
wall.  I  tugged  at  the  drawers.  I  tumbled 
every  blanket.  I  pried  in  the  pitcher. 

I  sat  on  the  bed  wrapped  in  fog. 

The  blind  rustled. 

The  sunbeams  crawled  in  marvellously. 

Then  I  was  frightened  by  another  speech, 
"  Nihonjin  desu." 

I  declared  that  it  flew  in  from  the  outside. 

I  rolled  up  the  blind. 

Oya,  oya !  There  was  a  parrot  perching  in  a 
cage  by  my  window  ! 

He  adjusted  his  showy  coat  first,  and  then 
sent  me  his  inquisitive  eyes. 


ioo  The  American  Diary 

"  Anata  donata  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Morning  Glory  is  my  insignificant  name, 
sir,"  I  replied. 

A  trifling  toss  of  his  head  showed  his  satis- 
faction in  my  name.  I  thought  he  was  trying 
to  set  me  at  ease  with  his  smile. 

"  Gokigen  ikaga  ?" 

"  I  feel  splendidly,  thank  you,  Mr.  Parrot !  " 
I  said. 

Then  pressing  his  head  backward  he  looked 
haughtily  at  me  with  fixed  eyes,  and  an- 
nounced : 

"  Nihonjin  desu." 

"  I'm  also  a  Jap,"     I  muttered. 

He  was  the  most  profound  Japanese  scholar, 
Mrs.  Schuyler  said,  in  all  Los  Angeles.  Mr. 
Schuyler  Jr.  brought  him  from  Kobe  last 
spring. 

I  told  her  the  incident  of  this  morning. 

She  laughed,  she  said  she  expected  it. 

Bad  Mother  Schuyler ! 


1 7th — Dear  Baby  !     Kawaii  koto  ! 
I  hugged  the  baby  of  Mrs.  Schuyler  Jr.  and 
kissed  it. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  101 

Her  husband  is  away  in  Japan  for  the  tea 
business. 

It  was  the  darling  baby,  I  thank  the  gods, 
who  received  my  first  kiss. 

It's  heavenly  to  stamp  love  with  a  kiss. 
Lips  are  the  portal  of  the  human  heart. 

Kiss  is  sweet. 

I  say  that  it  marks  an  epoch  in  the  spiritual 
evolution  of  the  Japanese  when  they  learn 
what  a  kiss  is — but  not  how  to  kiss. 

The  baby  crawled  like  a  sportive  crab.  It 
orationed.  It!  I  felt  sorry  that  "It"  would 
soon  be  changed  to  "He"  or  "She."  It 
caught  sight  of  a  piece  of  burnt  match  in 
the  course  of  its  expedition.  It  turned  its 
way  and  clinched  it  with  its  fingers.  It  has- 
tened to  the  mother  to  exhibit  it,  and  waited 
patiently  with  its  great  game  for  Mamma's 
praise. 

I  nearly  cried  in  my  excitement  at  such  a 
pathetic  revelation. 

Lovely  thing ! 

The  baby  had  blue  eyes. 

My  preference  wasn't  for  blue  eyes.  I  often 
snapped  at  them,  saying  that  they  were  like  a 
dead  fish's  eyes. 


IO2  The  American  Diary 

But  how  long  can  I  keep  up  my  ill-will,  when 
I  look  with  delight  upon  the  blueness  in  water, 
sky  and  mountain  ? 

Isn't  it  precious  to  see  the  blue  pictures  on 
china  ? 

A  blue  pencil  is  just  the  thing  to  mark  on 
the  margin  of  a  pleasing  book. 

Blue  is  a  poetical  hue. 

Robert  Burns  was  blue-eyed. 

I  recalled  the  first  American  I  met  in  Tokio, 
who  seriously  questioned  whether  it  was  a  fact 
that  Japs  butcher  a  blue-eyed  baby. 

Bakabakashii  wa ! 

Japan  has  no  blue  eye. 

And  Japanese  are  worshippers  of  any  sort  of 
baby. 

If  American  babies  were  like  Chinese  girls  ! 

I  would  pile  up  all  my  coins  to  buy  one. 

Meriken  baby  understood  how  to  smile 
before  how  to  cry.  It  is  a  lady  or  gentleman 
already. 

I  will  serve  as  baby's  nurse  if  I  must  support 
myself. 

It's  a  high  task  to  be  useful  to  the  baby,  and 
watch  its  growth  as  a  silent  astronomer  watches 
the  stars. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  103 

I  wish  I  could  roll  the  baby's  carriage  day 
after  day. 

How  sweetly  the  world  would  be  turning 
then  ! 

Shall  I  hire  Schuyler's  baby  for  one  day  ? 


8th — Is  there  any  more  gratifying  word  than 
dinner  ? 

I  had  a  "  hipp  goo'  "  dinner.  (Permit  a 
Chinese-English  expression  for  once.) 

Its  inviting  heaviness  was  like  an  honourable 
poem  by  Milton. 

Schuyler's  house  has  a  Miltonic  presence. 

Electric  light  is  too  imposing. 

Candelabra  are  like  a  moon  whose  beams 
are  a  lenitive  song. 

The  nude  shoulders  of  Mrs.  Schuyler,  Jr., 
crimsoned  in  the  rays  from  the  candelabra. 

The  exposure  of  some  part  of  the  skin  is  the 
highest  order  of  art.  How  to  show  it  is  just 
as  serious  a  study  as  how  to  clothe  it. 

If  I  had  such  supreme  shoulders  as  hers,  I 
would  not  pause  before  displaying  them. 

What  falling  shoulders  are  mine  ! 

The   slope    of   the   shoulders   is  prized    in 


io4  The  American  Diary 

Japan.  Amerikey  is  another  country,  you 
know. 

I  appeared  at  the  dinner  in  my  native  gown. 

The  things  on  the  table  had  a  high-toned 
excellence. 

I  will  not  forget  to  have  my  initials 
engraved  if  I  happen  to  buy  any  silver. 

Coffee  was  served.  I  felt  that  an  old  age 
had  returned,  when  eating  was  only  a 
dissipation. 

I'm  growing  to  love  Meriken  food. 

I  am  glad  that  I  don't  see  any  musty 
pudding  at  Schuylers',  a  sight  that  makes  me 
ten  years  older. 

And  another  thing  I  hate  is  the  smell  of 
cabbage. 

How  pleased  I  was  to  see  a  "chabu  chabu  " 
of  shallow  water  in  my  ringer  bowl  !  Just  a 
glimpse  of  water  is  tasty. 

Our  taciturn  butler  retired  from  the  dining- 
room  with  graceful  dignity. 

The  butler  has  ceased  to  be  a  common  serv- 
ant. He  has  advanced,  I  suppose,  to  the 
rank  of  an  ornament  of  the  Meriken  household. 

The  sister  of  Mother  Schuyler  and  her  hus- 
band dined  with  us. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  105 

The  funniest  thing  about  her  was  that  she 
kept  a  few  long  hairs  on  her  cheek.  They 
grew  from  a  mole. 

It  may  be  good  luck  to  preserve  them. 

Her  husband  was  surprised  when  he  heard 
that  we  do  not  use  knife  and  fork  at  home. 

Bamboo  chop-sticks  !     How  dear  ! 

9th — I  have  no  belief  in  the  earring. 

It  is  a  savage  mode,  like  the  deformed  feet 
of  the  Chinese  woman. 

But  why  did  the  Meriken  lady  discard  her 
veil  ? 

Her  face  behind  the  veil  would  appear  like 
a  rose  through  the  Spring  mist.  It  is  a 
charming  thing  as  ever  was  fashioned  for 
woman. 

I  have  seen  no  lady  with  a  veil  in  this  town. 

I  suppose  the  Los  Angeles  women  confide 
in  their  faces. 

They  strew  more  liberty  in  their  grace  than 
the  San  Franciscans. 

Their  beauty  is  informal. 

The  city  is  enchanting. 

I  am  pleased  that  I  am  not  shown  here  so 
many  a  "  To  Let  "  as  in  Frisco. 


io6  The  American  Diary 

Even  the  barefooted  Arabs,  those  street 
sparrows,  are  quite  a  picture. 

loth — I  promised  Mrs.  Schuyler,  Jr.,  good 
care  of  her  baby  for  half  an  hour. 

I  carried  it  firm  on  my  arms. 

I  jogged  out  to  the  garden. 

The  baby  faced  toward  me  and  said  : 

"  Bu,  bu  !     Bu,  bu,  bu  !  " 

I  felt  grateful,  thinking  that  it  counted  me 
among  its  friends. 

I  laid  its  head  on  my  breast. 

I  sang  a  little  Japanese  lullaby  : 

"Nenneko,  nenneko, 
Nennekoyo  ! 
Oraga  akanbowa 
Itsudekita  ? 
Sangatsu  sakurano 
Sakutokini ! 
Doride  okawoga 
Sakurairo." 

(Sleep,  sleep,  sleep  !  When  was  our  baby 
made  ?  Third  month,  when  the  cherry  blos- 
soms. So  the  honourable  face  of  our  child  is 
cherry-blossom  coloured.) 

The    breezes   billed   and    cooed    upon    the 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  107 

grasses.  An  imperial  palm  cast  its  rich 
shadow. 

The  affectionate  sunlight  made  me  think  of 
a  "  little  Spring"  of  the  Japanese  September. 
Everything  inclined  to  a  siesta  in  the  yellow 
air. 

A  tropical  touch  is  the  touch  of  passion. 

Can  you  fancy  this  is  the  month  of  Decem- 
ber? 

I  cannot. 

After  I  put  the  baby  to  its  nurse,  I  paced 
around  a  bronze  statue  upon  the  lawn,  losing 
myself  in  Greek  beauty. 

Then  I  snatched  a  rose. 

I  pressed  it  to  my  nose-tip. 

1 2th — Where's  my  painstaking  description 
of  Echo  Mountain  ? 

I  made  a  pleasant  trip  there  yesterday  with 
Schuyler's  party. 

I  lost  my  writing  penned  last  night. 

Such  a  heedless  tomboy  ! 

I  idled,  watching  a  spider  from  my  window. 
It  was  framing  a  net  amid  the  garden  trees. 
An  awfully  dignified  torn  cat  glared  from  un- 
der a  bush.  I  was  sorry  no  game  came  upon 


io8  The  American  Diary 

the  scene  to  his  honour.  My  profound  Japan- 
ese scholar  was  not  discouraged  by  the  lack  of 
an  audience.  He  was  busy  presenting  his  po- 
lite "  Gokigen  ikaga  ?  " 

Then  I  found  what  I  did  with  my  yester- 
day's diary. 

Areda  mono ! 

I  wiped  my  oily  hands  with  it  and  buried  it 
in  a  trash  basket. 

I  fixed  my  hair  this  morning. 

Morning  Glory  San,  you  have  to  keep  your 
Nikki  in  a  safe  ! 

Great  Carlyle  wrote  his  "  French  Revolu- 
tion "  twice. 

I  wish  I  had  been  given  a  slice  of  his  per- 
sistency. 

1 3th — A  Bishop  visited  and  lunched  with 
us. 

Bishop  !     How  I  desired  to  meet  one  ! 

It  had  been  my  fancy,  ever  since  I  read  of 
the  venerable  Bishop  who  threw  out  candle- 
sticks to  Jean  Valjean  in  Hugo's  book. 

His  name  was  Myriel. 

What  is  my  friend's  name  ?  After  a  man 
reaches  the  bishop's  see,  his  own  name  should 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  109 

retire  from  actual  service.  People  call  him 
"  Bishop  !  Bishop  ! "  as  if  it  were  a  nickname. 

My  bishop  had  a  holy  face. 

"  Who  is  this  good  man  who  is  staring  at 
me  ?  "  I  said  to  myself  at  first  sight,  as  Napo- 
leon said  when  he  saw  Myriel. 

A  young  churchman  is  unnatural. 

The  customarily  pessimistic  face  of  the 
Japanese  priest  causes  aversion. 

I  got  what  I  wanted  in  my  new  friend. 

If  I  were  his  daughter,  I  would  comb  his 
silken  hair  before  he  goes  to  church  on  Sunday. 

I  was  glad  he  was  not  thin. 

Ho,  ho,  ho !  He  ate  meat  like  anybody 
else. 

He  would  seem  holier  if  he  merely  bit  a 
crust  of  bread,  and  sipped  three  spoonfuls  of 
tea. 

After  luncheon  we  strolled  through  the  gar- 
den arm  in  arm. 

Not  a  bit  I  blushed.  I  was  as  completely 
at  ease  with  him  as  with  my  papa. 

He  told  me  of  the  beauty  of  Christ.  His 
soft,  deep  voice  was  as  from  a  far-away  forest. 

I  plucked  a  few  stems  of  violets.  I  fitted 
them  to  his  buttonhole. 


no  The  American  Diary 

Such  a  little  thing  pleased  him  immensely. 

Dear,  simple  Bishop  ! 

I  digested  what  he  spoke.  I  declared  that 
Christianity  was  the  sun,  while  Buddhism  was 
the  moon. 

The  sun  is  day  and  life,  and  the  moon  night 
and  rest. 

How  can  we  live  without  the  sun  ?  The 
moon  is  poetry. 

1 4th — The  sky  became  low,  its  colour  frown- 
ing gray. 

The  winds  snarled. 

December  was  suddenly  calling  us. 

We  sat  by  a  snug  fire  at  evening. 

Its  yellow  flame  suggested  a  preacher  up- 
lifting his  hands  in  prayer.  The  fire  flickered 
in  jollity. 

"  Pachi,  pachi,  pachi ! " 

The  parlour  was  not  lighted. 

The  pictures  on  the  wall  were  impressive  in 
the  firelight. 

Any  woman  looks  charming  at  night  and  by 
the  fireside.  I  felt  happy  imagining  that  I 
must  appear  lovely. 

The  fireplace  is  so  dear,  like  mamma's  lap. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 1 1 

Mr.  Schuyler  brought  a  chess-board  and 
challenged. 

I  offered  me  for  a  fight. 

I  used  to  play  American  chess  with  a  Meri- 
ken  missionary  who  lived  in  my  neighbour- 
hood. 

I  thought  it  fun  to  beat  an  old  man. 

"  Namu  Tenshoko  Daijingu  !"  I  repeated. 

The  gentleman  asked  what  I  muttered. 

"  Never  mind  !  Only  a  little  spell ! "  I  re- 
plied in  the  lightest  fashion. 

The  chess-board  was  placed  between  us. 

"  Mr.  Schuyler,  can  you  sacrifice  anything 
for  the  game  ?  " 

"  Whatever  you  please,  my  little  woman  !" 

"  Well  !  " 

"  Well,  then  !  " 

"  Suppose  you  make  Mrs.  Schuyler  your 
stake !  My  uncle  will  be  mine." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  Very  well  !  " 

He  was  a  tactician.     I  fought  hard. 

Alas,  my  game  was  lost  ! 

My  second  stake  was  myself. 

"  It  means  that  I  may  marry  you,  doesn't 
it?" 

"  As  you  please,  sir  !  " 

_ 
-:P 


1 1 2  The  American  Diary 

lyani  natta  ! 

He  was  far  superior. 

Oya,  oya,  I  was  a  loser  again  ! 

I  looked  sadly  on  my  uncle,  and  said  : 

"  Uncle,  you  cannot  return  home  !  We  are 
the  property  of  Mr.  Schuyler.  Isn't  it  really 
too  bad  ?  " 

1 5th — Shall  I  make  a  little  kimono  for 
Schuyler's  baby  ? 

It  would  be  a  souvenir  of  my  visit. 

The  crape  kept  in  the  Jap  stores  of  this 
town  isn't  appropriate  for  a  baby's  "  bebe." 
My  flower-dyed  under-kimono  should  be 
utilized. 

I  opened  my  trunk. 

Mother  Schuyler  brought  in  a  young  lady. 
She  was  her  niece,  that  is  to  say  the  daughter 
of  Mrs.  Ellis.  Mrs.  Ellis  is  the  one  with  the 
long  hair  on  her  cheek. 

I  told  them  of  my  new  drift. 

They  were  surprised  at  my  determination. 

Miss  Olive  applied  to  be  my  pupil  in  Jap- 
anese sewing. 

What  a  southern  name  !  Olive  perfectly 
fits  for  a  girl  born  in  the  passionate  breeze. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 13 

Her  "  Is  that  so  ?  "  or  "  Don't  you  ?  "  flut- 
tered affectionately  like  golden  sunshine. 

Mrs.  Schuyler  bade  her  servant  to  move  in 
the  machine. 

I  objected. 

Machine-clicking  is  not  Oriental.  The 
"  bebe  "  has  to  be  done  in  pure  Japanese. 

1 6th — I  found  a  hammock  on  the  veranda. 

It  is  the  thing  for  summer,  of  course. 

I  never  laid  me  in  it  before  in  my  life. 

I  thought  that  I  would  see  how  I  would  feel. 

I  hanged  it. 

I  romped  in  it. 

It  was  delightful.  I  fancied  that  we — I  and 
who  ? — hammocked  among  the  summer 
breezes.  Then  a  star  appeared.  He  said, 
"  How  beautiful  the  star  is  !" 

What  did  I  fancy  next  ? 

Oh,  never  mind  ! 

I  tossed  my  feet.  The  skirt  fluttered.  My 
new  satin  slippers — number  one  and  a  half — 
were  all  seen.  I  drew  up  my  skirt  a  little,  and 
made  a  whole  show  of  my  honourable  legs. 

I  prayed  that  somebody  would  pass  by  to 
fling  an  adoring  glance  at  them. 


ii4  The  American  Diary 

No  one  roamed  along.  I  scorned  my 
frivolity. 

The  Bible  by  me  wasn't  open  at  all. 

I  decided  to  read  it  to-day,  although  re- 
ligion isn't  so  becoming. 

My  Bishop  sent  it  this  morning.  Dear  old 
Bishop  !  He  thought  me  quite  a  docile 
"  nenne." 

I  stretched  my  body  in  the  hammock. 

Alas,  ma ! 

•>^e*  x       °^n 

My  hana  kanzashi  with  the  butterflies  was 
caught  by  the  meshes.  The  wings  of  one 
butterfly  were  tortured.  Yes,  I  had  put  a 
Japanese  pin  on  my  hair  this  morning. 

I  hoped  I  could  pay  a  bit  more  attention  to 
my  head  all  the  time. 

I  was  sad  for  a  while. 

1 7th — Good  Annie  wrote  me  from  Mrs 
Willis'. 

What  a  scrawl ! 

But  woman's  bad  grammar  and  infirm  pen- 
manship are  pathetic,  don't  you  think  so  ? 

It  might  look  better  on  a  thin  blue  tablet. 

But  poor  Annie  chose  such  thick  smooth 
paper. 

Oya  !     What  ? 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 1 5 

A  five-dollar  check  ? 

My  goodness,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  my 
lottery  !  Even  the  ticket  I  have  lost.  It 
drew  out  five  dollars. 

Why  not  thirty  thousand  dollars  ? 

It  was  better  than  a  blank,  anyway,  I  said 
philosophically. 

Now  let  me  send  a  little  present  to  my  home  ! 

A  little  thing  is  a  deal  sweeter. 

I  ordered  fourteen  packets  of  N.  Y.  Central 
Park  lawn  seed  from  a  nursery. 

New  York  Central  Park  ! 

Doesn't  it  sound  grand  ? 

And  other  flower  seeds  also. 

The  dwarf  sweet  pea  is  named  "  Cupid." 

It  will  be  no  wonder  if  my  father  mistakes 
it  for  a  kibisho. 

Cupid  is  a  handsome  boy,  not  a  bullfrog- 
looking  teapot,  funny  papa  ! 

He  is  garden  crazy.  I  can  imagine  how 
conceited  he  will  be  showing  around  his 
western  sea  flowers  when  they  are  in  bloom. 

I  asked  my  uncle  to  translate  the  directions. 

Isn't  it  handy  to  keep  a  secretary? 

I'll  not  miss  signing  my  name  on  the  trans- 
lation. 


..«r"  .-. 


1 1 6  The  American  Diary 

My  daddy  may  think  it  was  done  by  myself. 
Woman  is  a  snob. 
Now  what  for  mamma  ? 

1 8th — Mother  Schuyler  took  me  to  her 
church. 

Such  a  heathen  me  ! 

I  felt  that  I  was  "  sitting  on  needles,"  when 
I  slipped  into  the  Meriken  church  without 
glancing  at  even  one  page  of  the  Bible.  It 
was  as  risky  a  venture  as  to  face  an  examina- 
tion before  fitting. 

The  service  hadn't  begun. 

Many  ladies  were  introduced  to  me  by  Mrs. 
Schuyler. 

They  talked  about — what  ? — anything  but 
religion. 

I  was  fanned  continually  by  an  offensive 
odor.  Some  one  had  left  her  perfume  at 
home. 

Honourable  arm-pit  smell ! 

Amerikey  cultivates  many  a  disagreeable 
sort  of  thing,  doubtless. 

The  ladies  seemed  to  regard  the  church  as 
another  drawing  parlor. 

My  mind  was  calmed  within  ten  minutes. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 1 7 

Ureshiya ! 

The  Meriken  church  is  not  a  difficult  place 
at  all. 

A  Japanese  church  is  ever  so  sad-faced. 
No  woman  under  thirty  is  seen  there.  I 
laughed  at  the  thought  of  an  "  incense-smell- 
ing "  young  girl. 

Isn't  it  strange  that  Meriken  girls  love  the 
church  ? 

Is  it  because  they  cannot  marry  without  it  ? 

Sunday  amusement  doesn't  begin  before 
noon.  What  would  girls  do  if  there  were  no 
church  where  they  could  burst  into  song  ? 

How  classically  the  bald  head  of  the  minis- 
ter shone  ! 

There  is  nothing  more  pleasing  than  a 
sweeping  sermon  on  a  bright  day. 

But  my  mind  strayed,  wondering  why  all 
those  ladies  were  so  homely. 

I  snatched  my  hat  off,  wishing  to  be  differ- 
ent from  the  rest. 

I  fancied  the  reason  why  their  hats  were 
eternally  glued  to  their  heads  was  because 
their  hair  was  never  in  first-rate  order  for  exhi- 
bition. 

Many  years  ago  I  used  to  steal  into  a  Buddha 


n8 


The  American  Diary 


temple,  being  a  little  "  otenba,"  and  tap  an 
idol's  shoulder,  saying  :  "  How  are  you  getting 
along,  Hotoke  Sama?" 

Not  one  idol  here  ! 

No  incense  ! 

How  uninteresting! 

How  silly  I  was  inventing  some  clever  thing 
for  the  occasion  when  I  should  be  forced  to 
confess  !  The  church  was  not  Catholic. 

When  we  returned  home,  Mrs.  Schuyler 
asked  me  what  was  the  text. 

"  Let  me  see  -  " 

I  made  as  if  I  had  been  a  listener  to  the 
sermon. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Schuyler,  what  was  it  ?  "  I  ex- 
claimed as  if  I  had  accidentally  forgotten. 


—  Miss  Olive  offered  to  show  me  how 
to  play  golf. 

I  went  to  her  home  at  Pasadena. 

Pasadena  is  a  luxurious  Winter  resort  of 
cheerful  aspect. 

Its  water  is  blessed. 

Even  the  street  cars  run  like  a  well-bred 
gentleman.  The  dog  never  growls  around. 
It  only  wags  its  tail.  No  beggars. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 19 

America's  outdoor  diversion  demands  a 
great  deal  of  strength. 

What  an  imbecile  "anego  !" 

After  fifteen  minutes  I  found  two  bean-like 
blisters  on  each  palm. 

I  gave  up  the  game. 

I  bought  a  golf  outfit,  nevertheless,  in  a 
store  on  my  way  home.  The  sight  of  a  lady 
carrying  it  once  stamped  itself  on  my  mind  as 
so  charming. 

What  attire  would  be  becoming  to  me  ? 

I  said  that  my  waist  should  be  of  deep  red 
wool.  Skirt  ?  It  must  also  be  of  wool,  of 
course,  with  a  large  checkerboard  pattern. 
Silk  isn't  gamesome,  is  it  ?  And  the  hat 
should  be  a  mouse-coloured  felt,  which  must  be 
thrust  carelessly  by  my  big  gold  pin  with  a 
coral  head. 

I  well-nigh  decided  to  dye  my  hair  red. 

What  will  my  uncle  say  ? 

[f^ 
2oth  —  Schuyler's   cook   wasn't    acquainted 

with  the  art  of  rice-cooking. 

Mother  Schuyler  said  explanatorily  that  she 
had  never  tasted  properly  cooked  rice  since 
the  day  at  Yokohama. 


120  The  American  Diary 

The  rice  was  pasty. 

I  thought  I  would  boil  the  rice  according  to 
Japanese  prescription  for  to-day's  dinner. 

I  stepped  down  to  the  kitchen. 

I  put  three  cupfuls  of  rice  in  a  saucepan, 
and  dipped  my  hand  in  it,  and  supplied  water 
as  much  as  to  my  wrist. 

I  placed  it  on  the  splendid  fire  till  the 
agitated  water  pushed  up  the  lid.  Then  I 
moved  it  on  to  a  gentle  fire.  The  cooking 
was  done  after  twenty  minutes. 

I  was  honoured  by  everybody  at  the  dinner. 
The  rice  was  singularly  fine.  The  grains 
kept  their  own  perfect  shapes. 

After  the  dinner  I  approached  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler  with  ink  and  paper. 

"  Will  you  write  your  recommendation  of 
my  rice-cooking  ?  "  I  said. 

She  gazed  at  me  questioningly. 

"  What  a  funny  girl !     What  shall  I  say  ?  " 

Then  I  dictated  solemnly  thus  : 

"  To  whom  it  may  concern  : 

"  I  highly  recommend  Miss  Morning 
Glory  with  her  honourable  art  of  rice-cooking. 
Her  method  is  Japanese,  that  is  to  say,  the 
best  in  the  world.  MRS.  SCHUYLER" 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 2 1 

2ist — Without  a  nephew  Mother  Schuyler 
wouldn't  be  a  complete  old  dear. 

She  has  one  fortunately. 

Olive  San  told  me  a  whole  lot  about  her 
great  brother. 

He  is  a  promising  artist. 

Artist  ? 

Doesn't  an  artist  affect  boorish  hair  ?  I  was 
anxious  to  know  how  his  hair  was,  because  I 
hated  anything  long  except  a  frock-coat. 

Miss  Olive  declared  him  one  handsome  boy. 
(I  thought  how  ridiculous  is  the  American  girl 
to  praise  her  brother.  It  is  Japanese  etiquette 
to  undervalue  one's  relatives  in  describing 
them.) 

I  finished  my  imaginary  sketch  of  his  face 
before  we  intruded  in  his  studio. 

Olive  presented  me  to  him. 

He  was  a  comely  young  man. 

What  gratified  me  most  about  him  was  his 
shapely  shoes,  well-polished. 

He  knew  how  to  talk  with  girls. 

I  was  instantly  put  on  unceremonious  terms. 

How  beautifully  he  once  slipped  "  Miss"  in 
addressing  me  !  His  gracefully-sounding 
"  Pardon  me,  I  mean  Miss  Morning  Glory  ! " 
pleased  me  enormously. 


122 


The  American  Diaiy 


I  told  him  that  it  was  a  regular  humbug  to 
be  particular. 

"I  will  call  you  Oscar,  shall  I?"  I  said, 
winking. 

I  felt  some  fervid  water  oozing  down  my 
cheeks.  I  was  blushing. 

I  was  glad  that  he  was  not  Mr.  Ellis,  Jr. 
The  word  "Jr.  "  appears  to  me  like  a  ragged 
papa's  old  coat  which  is  dreadfully  out  of 
fashion. 

"  Will  you  let  me  paint  you  ?  "  he  requested. 

"Am  I  beautiful  enough,  do  you  think?" 
I  said,  dropping  my  eyelids. 

"  Only  too  charming  !"  he  said  bravely. 

I  always  think  every  gentleman  whom  I 
meet  falls  in  love  with  me. 

I  regarded  Mr.  Oscar  Ellis  already  as  an 
adorer. 

0  sentimental  Morning  Glory  ! 

When  I  returned  to  Schuyler's  my  mind 
was  completely  occupied  with  an  absurd  fancy. 

1  was    thinking  what    I   shall  do  when  he 
proposes  to  me.     Shall  I  say  yes  ? 

For  a  girl  to  fall  in  love  with  one  while  she 
is  staying  at  his  aunt's  isn't  romantic  a  bit,  is 
it? 


\/\ 


of  a  Japanese  Girl 


123 


I  don't  care,  anyhow,  for  an  artist  lover. 
It  is  a  worn-out  hero  in  old  fiction. 
Doesn't   the    word    "  artist "    ring    like    a 
synonym  for  poverty  ? 


22nd — Mrs.  Ellis  invited  me  to  dinner. 

I  went  to  Pasadena  with  Mrs.  Schuyler,  Jr. 

The  evening  was  fragrant. 

After  the  dinner  we  stepped  out  to  the 
garden.  It  was  dusky. 

By  and  by,  twenty  Japanese  lanterns  were 
candled  among  the  trees  in  my  honor. 

I  was  in  a  sprightly  bent. 

I  was  whispering  a  little  Jap  song,  when 
Oscar  led  out  two  donkeys. 

Olive  sprang  upon  the  back  of  one  in 
gracious  audacity. 

"  Jump,  Morning  Glory  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

I  was  wavering  about  my  action,  when  I  felt 
Oscar's  firm  arms  around  my  waist.  My 
small  body  was  lifted  on  to  the  donkey's  by 
his  careless  gallantry. 

What  a  sensation  ran  through  me  !  It  was 
the  first  occasion  to  put  me  into  so  close 
contact  with  a  Meriken  young  man. 


124  The  American  Diary 

My  skirt  was  caught  by  the  saddle.  I  made 
a  whole  exhibition  of  my  leg. 

But  I  was  glad  the  stocking  was  beautiful. 

Oscar  held  my  bridle,  pacing  by  my  side. 

Alas! 

My  donkey  acted  awfully. 

Did  he  take  it  as  a  degradation  to  be 
whipped  by  a  Jap  ? 

Suddenly  it  dropped  its  honourable  rump. 
I  should  have  been  pitifully  thrown  out,  if  my 
arm  had  not  seized  Oscar's  neck.  I  looked 
apologetically  at  him.  He  turned  his  de- 
lighted face. 

I  could  not  stay  a  minute  longer. 

When  I  got  me  off  from  the  donkey,  I 
observed  the  new  moon  over  my  right  shoul- 
der. 

"  Good  luck  ! "  Olive  San  said. 

Why? 

Mr.  Oscar  began  to  whistle  somewhat  as 
follows : 

"  Ho  pop  pop  pop,  ho  pop  pop  pa  ! " 

23rd — To-day  is  Mrs.  Schuyler's  reception 
day. 

She  set  two  Japanese  screens  in  the  draw- 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  125 

ing  room,  moving  them  from  her  chamber. 
She  sprinkled  a  great  lot  of  exotic  bric-a-bric 
about. 

She  opened  a  regular  Chinese  bazar  which 
expressed  every  poor  taste.  Such  confusion  ! 

I  fancied  she  wanted  the  callers  to  recollect 
that  she  was  Mrs.  Ex-Consul  of  the  Orient. 

Japan  teaches  nothing  but  simplicity. 
Simplicity  is  the  philosophy  of  art. 

I  wondered  how  she  lived  there  without 
learning  it. 

Every  inch  of  Schuyler's  parlour  means  a 
heap  of  money. 

But  is  there  anything  more  displeasing  than 
tasteless  luxury  ?  Sufficiency  is  grateful,  but 
superfluity  is  nothing  but  offence. 

I  thought  that  Americans  buy  things  be- 
cause they  love  to  buy,  not  because  they  have 
to  buy. 

Meriken  jin  has  to  study  the  high  art  of 
concealing. 

The  brown  people  look  upon  the  scattering 
of  things  (however  costly  they  be)  as  lower 
than  barbarity.  Japs  believe  in  the  sublimity 
of  space. 

Isn't  it  delightful  to  sit  on  the  new  matting 


126 


The  American  Diary 


CT 

/  ^-*i. 


of  a  Japanese  guest-room  ?  Its  fresh  white- 
ness used  to  cure  my  headache. 

Isn't  it  taste  to  place  just  one  seasonable 
picture  on  the  tokonoma  ? 

So  many  a  Mrs.  Brown  and  Mrs.  Smith  called. 

They  surrounded  me. 

I  asked  myself  whether  they  paid  a  visit  to 
Mother  Schuyler  or  to  me. 

They  incessantly  threw  the  following  ques- 
tions at  me  : 

"  How  do  you  like  America  ?  " 

"  How  long  do  you  expect  to  stay  ?  " 

Such  an  inquisitive  Meriken  woman  ! 

I  wished  I  had  been  bright  enough  to  print 
a  slip  with  my  reply. 

Each  lady  wore  four  rings  at  least. 

Are  they  real  things  ? 

Diamond  is  hardly  my  choice.  Haughtily 
cold,  isn't  it  ? 

I  declared  that  their  shapeless  fingers  were 
not  fit  to  show  without  embellishment. 

If  I  had  money  for  a  ring  I  would  use  it  for 
365  pairs  of  silk  stockings.  Isn't  it  a  joy  to 
change  every  day  ? 

Schuyler's  baby  made  a  hit  with  its  kimono. 

All  the  ladies  kissed  and  kissed. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 2  7 

The  baby  wondered  at  their  act,  rolling  its 
eyes. 

Mother  Schuyler  was  quite  fussy  with  a 
little  speech  about  the  history  of  its  Japanese 
gown. 

Funny  old  dear  ! 

24th — Mr.  Oscar  Ellis  came  to  paint  me. 

Dear  Oscar  ! 

I  have  never  before  left  my  face  alone  for 
such  a  close  scrutiny. 

I  was  restless  at  first,  fancying  that  he  was 
gathering  all  my  flaws. 

Then  it  happened  in  my  thought  that  his 
absorption  had  something  of  religious  devo- 
tion in  it. 

I  grew  easy. 

I  began  to  feel  like  a  star  with  all  the  ad- 
mirers in  the  earth. 

A  garden  tree  sent  its  shadow  through  the 
window.  The  time  passed  as  gracefully  as  a 
fairy  on  tiptoe.  The  air  was  purple. 

Oscar  San  chatted  freely. 

I  never  took  the  part  of  a  listener  before  in 
my  life.  I  found  listening  honourable. 

"  So  you  like  the  Oriental  woman  ?  "  I  said. 


128  The  American  Diary 

He  said  American  beauty  was  rather  exter- 
nal, like  a  street  shop  window.  He  would 
like  to  know,  he  said,  if  there  was  any  word 
more  pathetic  than  "  sayonara." 

"Isn't  the  Japanese  woman  like  it?"  he 
asked. 

I  thought  he  was  correct. 

He  continued  : 

"  I  read  in  a  modern  poet  the  following 
lines  : 

'    .  .  .  .  full  of  whispers  and  of  shadows, 
Thou  art  what  all  the  winds  have  uttered  not, 
What  the  still  night  suggesteth  to  the  heart.' 

Such  is  the  vague  Japanese  beauty  in  my 
idea." 

"  I  am  not  so  nobly  sweet,  am  I  ?  "  I  ex- 
claimed. 

He  cast  a  strong  look,  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  put  his  final  judgment  upon  me. 

He  moved  his  brush  slowly  on  the  canvas. 

I  bowed  a  profound  bow. 

"  Gomen  kudasai  !  "  I  said. 

And  I  laid  me  on  the  floor,  stretching  out 
my  legs. 


"SO    YOU    LIKE    THE    ORIENTAL     WOMAN?" 


Dra7t'>t  fry  Genjiro  Yeto 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 29 

25th — I  bought  two  dolls. 

One  for  Schuyler's  baby,  as  my  Christmas 
gift. 

I  slept  with  the  other  last  night.  I 
squeezed  my  ear  to  the  dolly,  fancying  I  might 
hear  a  few  scratches  of  human  voice.  I  kissed 
it.  I  laughed,  saying  that  the  doll  was  the 
thing  for  my  starting  to  learn  how  to  kiss. 

"  Sleep  till  mamma  comes  back,  darling ! " 
I  said  in  the  morning  when  I  stepped  down  for 
my  breakfast. 

I  left  the  table  before  I  had  half-finished,  on 
account  of  my  anxiety  lest  the  upstairs  girl 
might  tattle  of  my  childishness,  if  she  found 
the  doll  in  my  bed. 

Thank  Heavens ! 

The  girl  hadn't  come  around  yet. 

I  locked  it  up  in  my  trunk. 

What  name  shall  I  give  it? 

Charley  ? 

I  was  disgusted  at  the  thought,  because 
every  Chinee — ten  thousand  Mongols  in  all — 
is  named  one  Charley. 

Merry  Christmas,  all  of  you  ! 

26th — It  rained. 


130  The  American  Diary 

I  implored  Mother  Schuyler  to  select  a  book 
from  her  library. 

All  the  literature  was  packed  in  there,  be- 
ginning with  Socrates,  sane  as  a  silver  dollar. 

Every  book  was  without  finger-marks. 
Book  without  finger-mark  is  like  bread  with- 
out brown  crust.  Dear  finger-mark  ! 

The  fashion  is  to  buy  books  and  to  glance 
at  their  covers,  I  suppose,  but  not  to  read 
them.  Modern  publications  aren't  meant  to 
be  read,  are  they  ?  The  authors  have  degen- 
erated to  the  place  of  upholsterers.  Isn't  it  a 
shame  ? 

Mrs.  Schuyler  picked  out  for  me  "  Rubaiyat 
of  Omar  Khayyam." 

My  uncle  said :  "  American  woman  can't 
keep  away  from  Omar  and  chicken-salad." 

I  began  to  peruse  it. 

The  raindrops  by  my  window  tuned : 

"  Tap,  tap,  tip,  tap,  tap  !  " 

I  thumped  the  book  on  the  floor,  and  ex- 
claimed : 

"Mr.  Khayyam!" 

Rubaiyat  is  a  menace  against  civilisation. 

Americanism  is  nothing  but  the  delight  in 
life  and  the  world. 


of  a  Japanese  Girt  131 

I  wonder  why  the  wise  government  of 
Washington  does  not  oppose  its  pagan  cir- 
culation. 

It  is  leprosy. 

But  I  thought  how  truly  true  was  his  "  I 
came  like  Water,  and  like  Wind  I  go." 

I  took  up  the  book  and  opened  it  again. 

Then  I  shut  it. 

I  listened  to  the  "  Tap,  tap,  tip  !  " 

Doesn't  it  sound  like  a  wan  voice  of  Omar  ? 

Yes! 

27th — A  lady  whom  I  met  at  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler's  reception  sent  me  a  mass  of  distinguished 
roses. 

Loving  American ! 

I  said  I  would  arrange  them  in  Japanese 
cult. 

My  style  is  the  enshin. 

Amerikey  is  destitute  of  flowers. 

Nippon  is  known  as  a  paradise  of  botanists. 
The  "  scientists "  of  flower  decoration  (if  I 
may  call  them  so)  are  given  a  great  advantage 
in  their  craft  of  delineating  beauty. 

The  rose  is  not  much  of  a  flower  to  the  Jap 
mind. 


132  The  American  Diary 

They  never  employ  it  in  their  work.  It 
has  no  grace  of  line.  Its  perfume  cannot  in- 
demnify for  its  being  thorny.  Things  not 
qualified  to  convey  charm  are  declined  from 
the  tokonama. 

I  love  roses  awfully  well  myself. 

I  will  make  the  best  of  them  in  my  art. 

Is  there  any  proper  vase  in  Schuyler's 
house  ? 

Mother  Schuyler  fetched  me  two  pieces. 

One  was  a  silver  vase  and  the  other  a  china 
one. 

I  couldn't  use  them,  I  was  sorry.  Silver 
was  commercial-looking.  The  painting  on  the 
china  a  hodge-podge  of  a  joss  house. 

Then  I  was  seized  with  a  thought. 

I  ran  down  to  the  kitchen. 

I  borrowed  an  old  scrubbing  bucket. 

"  Such  a  soft  antique  hue !  "  I  exclaimed 
with  delight. 

I  elected  one  imperial  rose  and  one  little 
one  for  a  "  retainer." 

I  fixed  them  in  the  bucket. 

I  thought  it  was  verily  the  simplicity  of  the 
illustrious  Mr.  Rikiu. 

I  presented  the  rest  of  the  roses  to  Mrs. 
Schuyler,  Jr. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  133 

She  stared  at  the  bucket  without  a  word.  I 
knew  that  her  silence  was  the  most  forcible 
irony.  She  didn't  approve  of  setting  such  a 
bucket  on  the  table. 

"  Meriken  jins  don't  know  any  art !  "  I  said, 
when  she  left. 

My  uncle  begged  me  not  to  act  so  fantastic- 
ally. 

28th  —  "  Here's  a  shamisen,  Morning 
Glory  ! "  Mother  Schuyler  cried  from  the  hall. 

I  darted  out  of  my  room. 

"Well!"  I  exclaimed. 

Shamisen  ? 

It  is  a  three-stringed  guitar  of  Japan. 

Mr.  Schuyler,  Jr.,  had  sent  it  from  Yoko- 
hama, as  she  explained. 

She  wished  me  to  tinkle  a  little  gamboling 
music  in  the  parlour  before  dinner. 

It  is  a  hard  implement  to  handle.  It  has 
no  notation.  Attainment  is  through  unending 
blind  practice. 

I  was  compelled  to  learn  by  mother,  many 
a  year  ago,  but  I  soon  gave  it  up  for  an  Eng- 
lish spelling-book. 

But  I  daresay  I  can  play. 


134  The  American  Diary 

I  regulated  the  key  to  begin  with. 

"  Ting,  ting  !     Chang,  chang,  ting  !  " 

"What  to  hum,  Uncle?"  I  asked,  facing 
aside. 

"  Love  ditty  is  desirable,"  Oji  San  considered. 

"  Don't  fancy  me  a  geisha!  "  I  said  in  de- 
fending laughter. 

Then  I  murmured  an  old  hauta/'Haori  ka- 
kushite,"  which  was  Englished  by  some  one. 

"  She  hid  his  coat, 
She  plucked  his  sleeve, 

'To-day  you  cannot  go  ! 
To-day,  at  least,  you  will  not  leave, 

The  heart  that  loves  you  so  ! ' 

The  mado  she  undid 

And  back  the  shoji  slid  : 
And  clinging  cried,  '  Dear  Lord,  perceive 

The  whole  world  is  snow  ! ' ' 

29th — We  went  to  a  theatre  last  evening. 

Dear,  classical  "flower  path"! 

How  I  missed  it  in  the  Meriken  stage ! 

Flower  path  ? 

It  is  a  projection  into  the  auditorium  used 
to  represent  when  one  starts  out  of  the  house 
or  returns. 

So    the   American  stage  has  no  front  gate 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  135 

scene  !     Every  one  enters  very  likely  from  the 
kitchen  door. 

The  stage  never  turns  round  like  the  Japan- 


ese stage. 


Oh,  dear,  iyadawa  ! 

American  play  has  too  much  kissing.  Each 
time  I  was  electrified. 

The  pit  was  filled  with  a  well-behaved  throng. 
All  the  ladies  took  off  their  hats.  Do  they  pay 
more  respect  than  in  church  ?  The  gentlemen 
never  whiffed  smoke. 

Japan  theatre  is  a  hurly-burly. 
The  "  boys"  roar  up  "  Honourable  tea — O'cha 
wa  yoroshi  ?    Honourable  cake?"    The  atten- 
dants of  teahouses  bow  around  to  the  beneficent 
habitues,  like  inclining  puppets. 

Women  sob.  They  laugh,  stuffing  their 
sleeves  into  their  mouths.  They  are  ready  to 
put  themselves  in  the  play.  They  are  senti- 
mental. 

Meriken  women  place  themselves  above  the 
play. 

I  doubted  whether  they  were  criticising  or 
enjoying. 

Some  lady  even  used  a  spy-glass  to  examine 
the  face  of  a  player. 


136  The  American  Diary 

I  thought  it  decidedly  an  impertinence. 
What  a  pry  ! 

I  will  not  act  to  such  an  assembly,  if  I  ever 
happen  to  be  an  actress. 

What  was  the  title  of  the  play  ? 
I  could  hardly  understand  half  of  it. 
I  tried  hard  to  swallow  my  gape. 

3Oth — Mr.  Oscar  Ellis  came  to  put  the  finish- 
ing touch  to  my  picture. 

The  execution  was  subtle  sureness. 

He  said  that  he  would  offer  it  to  his  beloved 
aunty — Mother  Schuyler,  of  course — begging 
to  let  it  ornament  the  wall  of  my  room. 

My  room  ? 

It  is  "  my  room    for  a  few  days  yet. 

I  thought  it  exceedingly  sweet. 

The  wall  is  duskily  red.  The  effect  would 
be  superb. 

When  I  announced  to  him  that  our  leave 
would  take  place  on  the  approaching  fourth,  he 
started  as  if  he  had  received  a  stroke. 

"  So  soon  ?  "  he  said. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  turning  my  uneasy  face. 

"  We  are  only  beginning  to  understand  each 
other." 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  137 

"  I  am  a  bird  of  passage,  as  you  know.  I 
have  to  fly  on  my  road." 

The  air  grew  tragic. 

Then  Oscar  said : 

"  What  will  you  do  when  you  tire  of  flying  ?  " 

"  Sah  ! " 

"Well?" 

"  I'll  return  to  Los  Angeles  and  induce  you 
to  marry  me  with  my  honourable  Oriental  ora- 
tory. Will  that  do?" 

We  interchanged  our  nimble  look.  We 
laughed  afterward. 

After  he  left  Schuyler  's ,  I  said  to  myself 
that  I  would  not  mind  positively  if  he  would 
kiss  me.  The  kiss  must  be  on  my  brow,  how- 
ever. Lips  are  too  personal. 

I  wrote  a  note,  beseeching  him  not  to  forget 
to  kiss  me  at  my  farewell. 

Then  I  chewed  the  note. 

I  reviled  my  folly. 

3ist — Street  walking  is  a  delight. 
I'll  mirror  my  face  in  the  glass  of  the  shop 
windows  ambling  by. 

I  dropped  a  handkerchief  to-day. 

A  gentle  gentleman — man  behind  me  should 


138  The  American  Diary 

be  young  and  good  looking  always — picked  it 
up.  His  respectful  "  Pardon  me — "  made  me 
feel  as  if  I  were  living  in  the  silver-armoured 
age  of  chivalry. 

Shall  I  drop  something  again  ? 

I  observed  a  variety  of  form  in  raising  the 
skirt. 

One  lifted  a  bit  of  the  left  by  her  finger-tips. 
Another  pulled  up  the  right  edge  of  her  front. 
Another  clinched  out  the  centre  of  her  back, 
showing  a  significant  fist.  A  corpulent  one 
stepped,  holding  up  both  sides  of  her  front. 
The  miserable  underskirt  revealed  itself  in  red. 

Which  mode  is  becoming  to  me  ? 

Jan.  ist,  1900 — Is  to-day  the  opening  of 
another  century  ? 

Happy  New  Year  ! 

I  will  send  a  lot  of  "  Shinnen  omedeto  "  to 
Tokio. 

Isn't  this  a  queer  New  Year? 

No  shimenawa  along  the  fa9ades  with  flitting 
gohei ! 

No  "  gate  pine  tree  "  ! 

No  sambow  for  an  oblation  unto  the  gods  in 
any  room  ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 39 

No  rice-bread  !     No  golden  toso  for  the  cup  ! 

I  mingled  with  a  neighbour's  girls  for  a 
"  rope-jumping." 

We  played  hide-and-seek.  I  offered  ten 
cents  reward  to  the  one  who  detected  me.  I 
abandoned  the  unprofitable  job  after  emptying 
out  all  my  change. 

Miss  Olive  called  on  a  bicycle. 

I  persuaded  her  to  let  me  try  on  her  bloom- 
ers. She  exchanged  them  for  my  walking  skirt 
which  was  four  inches  shorter. 

We  hurried  to  the  garden. 

She  helped  me  on  the  wheel. 

Such  a  bad  Meriken  girl ! 

She  slipped  her  hand  from  it.  I  fell  on  a 
bush.  The  touchy  rose  thorned  in  my  hand. 

2nd — I  made  a  discovery. 

Mother  Schuyler's  teeth  are  all  false. 

I  have  no  chance  to  explore  whether  her 
hair  is  a  wig. 

She  chains  a  big  bunch  of  keys  to  her  waist. 
Its  rattle  sounds  housewifely. 

She  forgot  it,  laying  it  on  the  sitting-room 
table. 

I  knotted  it  to  my  waist-strap. 


140  The  American  Diary 


t. 
"Jaran,  jaring,  jaran,  jaran  !" 

3rd  —  The  sayonara  dinner  was  given.  Mrs. 
Ellis'  folks  joined  us. 

Mother  Schuyler  repeated  every  ten  minutes 
her  query,  "when  would  I  visit  them  again  ?  " 

Mr.  Oscar  set  his  depressive  look  on  me. 
I  wasn't  brave  enough  to  encounter  it. 

I  slid  away  from  confronting  him. 

I  found  him  an  elegant  young  man.  He 
impressed  me  as  an  image  of  Apollo. 

Only  God  knows  when  I  will  reprint  my 
footsteps  on  the  soil  of  Los  Angeles  ! 

I  felt  awfully  sorry  in  leaving  such  an 
agreeable  company. 

"  Fold  your  tent  like  the  Arabs, 
And  silently  steal  away." 

How  sad  ! 

4th  —  Good-bye,  Mr.  Parrot! 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  5th. 
I  am  again  at  Mrs.  Willis'. 
San  Francisco  ! 
Such  miraculous  San  Francisco  water  ! 


\     . 
J 

of  a  Japanese  Girl  141 

I  will  taste  bliss  again  in  drinking  the 
midnight  water,  stretching  out  my  arm  from 
the  bed. 

6th — I  tied  Dorothy's  hair  in  Nippon  style. 
She  pleased  me  much  by  remembering  the 
Japanese  words  I  taught  her. 
She  is  a  cute  dear. 

The  mode  had  been  the  "  O'tabaco  bon." 
I  straightened  her  hair  with  my  wet  hand. 
I  added  a  tiny  bit  of  crimson  crape. 
She  looked  a  lovely  fairy. 

7th — Rainy  day  ! 

The  heavily  reserved  weather  confines  me 
in  the  pose  of  genius. 

My  hair  lounged  down  my  shoulders. 
Disorder  is  the  first  step  in  being  a  genius,  I 
fancy.  My  eyes  should  be  rolled  up  to  the  sky 
in  divine  tragicalness. 

I  have  had  a  greediness  for  the  name  of 
novelist. 

To-day  I  found  myself  in  the  crisis  where  I 
must  scribble  or  die. 

I  regret  to  say  that  mine  is  a  love  story  also, 
as  every  beginner's  book  has  been.  I  hope 


The  American  Diaiy 

everybody  will  be  contented  with  "The 
Destiny,"  a  respectable  title  for  my  fiction. 
Who  says  it  is  the  style  of  name  employed  one 
hundred  years  ago  ? 

The  book  will  be  concluded  with  three  hun- 
dred pages. 

Now  I  wonder  whether  a  long  story  is  in 
demand. 

Chapter  I.  is  as  follows  : 

WHEN  THE  MOON  ROSE. 

This  story  begins  when  the  moon  rose. 

Its  silvery  rays — it  was  six  P.  M.  of  April — 
fell  on  the  Shiba  park  in  laughter. 

My  heroine  jogged  along  into  the  park, 
singing  a  light  song. 

"  Miss  Honourable  Moon,  how  old  are  you  ? 
Thirteen  and  seven,  you  say  ? 
You  are  young  enough  to  marry " 

Let  me  explain  about  her  a  bit  ! 
Her  name  is  O  Hana  San. 
Thirteen    years   old.     Thirteen  ?     It  is  the 
age  when  the  flower  of  girlhood  starts  to  bloom. 
Bewitching  Hana  ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  143 

Do  you  remember  a  well  by  the  glorious 
cherry  tree  in  the  park  ?  The  'rikisha  men 
moisten  their  parched  lips  at  the  "  H^aven- 
Sent."  That  is  its  name,  sir. 

Miss  Hana  looked  down  into  the  well. 

She  began  to  adjust  her  hair.  The  first 
worry  of  a  girl  after  thirteen  would  naturally 
be  about  her  hair. 

She  gazed  up  to  the  cherry  blossoms  and 
exclaimed  : 

"  Utsukushii  nah  !  Lovely !  " 

Then  she  found  her  face  again  in  the  well- 
mirror,  thinking  what  a  charming  O  Hana  San 
it  would  make  with  the  flowers  on  her  hair. 

My  worthy  readers,  I  suppose  it  is  the  time 
some  one  must  enter. 

He  came. 

He  was  a  little  boy. 

I  will  not  mention  his  name  just  yet. 

He  came  close  to  her  and  pinched  her  lit- 
tle back.  Both  blushed,  facing  each  other. 
They  were  quite  strangers. 

The  evening  zephyrs  stirred  the  cherry 
blossoms.  They  planted  themselves  silently 
among  the  falling  petals,  as  ethereal  as  snow. 

"  I  delight  to  stand  in  the  storm  of  petals, 


144  The  American  Diary 

don't  you  ?"  Hana  inclined  her  head  a  trifle 
in  speaking. 

The  woman  always  speaks  first. 

"  Let  me  see  your  school  book  !  "  again  she 
said. 

"Why?" 

He  put  it  in  her  tiny  hand. 

"  Thanks  !  Arigato  !  " 

She  bowed  low.  When  she  put  the  book 
on  her  shoulder,  she  was  running  away,  sing- 
ing : 

"  Miss  Honourable  Moon,  how  old  are  you  ? " 
The  boy  stood  aghast. 

%  H4  H5  H1  3f  H5  3f 

The  author  of  this  story  found  O  Hana 
San  again  by  the  same  well  on  the  next 
evening. 

The  boy's  book  in  her  hand,  of  course. 

She  paced  around  the  well,  muttering : 

"He  must  come,  because  the  moon  rose." 

But  he  was  not  seen. 

My  next  chapter  will  be  "The  Second 
Meeting." 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  145 

8th — My  precious  Ada  again  ! 

How  could  I  live  without  her  ? 

We  hastened  to  a  circus. 

If  I  were  a  boy,  I  could  earn  a  heap  of 
money  selling  "  Pea — nuts  !  Lemon — ade  !  " 

How  those  clowns  did  tumble ! 

If  I  could  share  in  such  fun  ! 

The  ringmaster  was  the  handsomest  man  in 
the  world,  in  shiny  boots  and  heavenly  hat. 
How  splendidly  his  whip  cracked  ! 

The  clack  dashed  like  a  burst  of  bamboo. 

"  Wouldn't  you  be  glad  to  be  the  lady  on 
horseback  ?  I  would  truly.  Glance  at  her 
daring  grace  !  "  I  whispered  to  Miss  Ada. 

Even  the  seal  performed. 

We  laughed  till  tears  dropped. 

The  circus  had  twenty  elephants.     Think  ! 

Our  Imperial  Menagerie  of  Tokio  has  only 
one.  How  poor  ! 

9th — Last  night  I  went  over  to  Mrs.  Con- 
sul's to  be  given  a  lesson  in  card-playing. 

"Cribbage  would  be  the  thing.  Why? 
Because  the  Lambs  took  much  pleasure  in  it," 
she  said. 

"  How  is  poker?"  I  suggested. 


146  The  American  Diary 

"Gambling  game  !  "  she  protested. 
"  I  delight    in   gambling,   Mrs.    Consul,"    I 
proclaimed. 

I  had  a  wicked  dream. 

What  do  you  imagine  ? 

I  ran  away  with  a  circus  rider. 

loth — I  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  Jap- 
anese woman. 

She  must  have  been  passing  her  thirty 
springs.  I  could  be  accurate  in  my  scale,  be- 
ing one  of  her  sisterhood. 

A  cigar-stand  keeper  in  Dupont  Street. 

Her  name  is  O  Fuji  San. 

Mrs.  Wistaria  brought  a  box  of  cigarettes 
that  my  uncle  had  ordered. 

The  morning  is  unoccupied  in  such  a  retail 
shop.  Nobody  puffs  much  before  lunch.  She 
set  herself  in  a  tete-a-tete. 

The  chastity  of  a  wife  may  be  measured  by 
her  solo  on  her  husband.  Woman's  greatest 
joy  often  lies  in  lamenting  the  faults  of  her 
teishu. 

Mrs.  Wistaria  spoke  of  her  husband's  being 
ill.  I  was  to  accept  any  chance  for  squander- 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  147 

ing  my  feelings.  I  sympathised,  repeating, 
"  Komaru  nei !  How  sad  ! " 

She  said  that  she  was  going  to  leave  the 
city  for  a  week  for  the  spring  of  San  Jose,  to 
take  care  of  her  infirm  dear. 

"  I  fear  I  may  lose  my  customers,"  she 
flagged. 

Her  husband  was  afflicted  with  rheumatism. 

I  promised  to  call  at  her  store. 

Japs  never  visit  an  invalid  without  a  present. 

Champagne?  It's  too  ostentatious  a  drink. 
It's  like  a  highly  rouged  woman. 

The  loving-eyed  claret  should  be  chosen. 

I  sent  half  a  dozen  bottles  to  Mrs.  Wistar- 
ia's. 

A  charity  woman  should  be  dressed  in  black 
and  white.  I  went  to  Dupont  street,  however, 
in  my  grey  dress. 

Her  husband  struggled  to  entertain  me. 
His  clumsy  smile  appeared  all  the  time  at  the 
wrong  cue. 

Poor  Mr.  What's-his-name ! 

Their  business  was  an  absurdly  small  affair. 

The  whole  stock  hardly  valued  above  one 
hundred  dollars. 

I  thought  I  could  conduct  it  rightly. 


148  The  American  Diary 

I  was  carried  away  by  a  sudden  fancy. 

"  Can't  you  leave  your  store  in  my  hands, 
while  you  are  away?  Say  yes!  No?"  I 
pressed  myself  upon  them  eagerly. 

They  were  amazed. 

"  High-born  lady  like  you  ?  Oh,  no  !  Dosh- 
ite,  doshite  !  Think !  Do  you  know  this  is 
the  toughest  part  of  the  town?"  Mrs.  Wis- 
taria tried  to  make  me  retreat. 

I  couldn't  listen  to  her,  my  whole  soul  being 
absorbed  in  my  new  caprice. 

I  thought  it  remarkably  romantic. 

I  left  the  store  to  bring  uncle  to  talk  the 
matter  over. 

Mrs.  Wistaria's  store  was  neighboured  by 
every  saloon.  The  fuddling  sounds  overflowed 
in  song : 

"  Hello  ma  baby,  hello  ma  honey " 

i  ith — Now  he  is  my  beloved  uncle. 

He  assured  me  of  his  help  in  carrying  out 
my  freak. 

"  You  are  fitting  me  for  a  slightly  better 
role,  I  fancy,"  he  said,  venturing  to  add  even 
one  or  two  of  his  good-natured  giggles.  "The 
secretaryship  of  a  cigar-stand  is  a  rather  more 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 49 

hopeful  occupation  than  carrying  your  wraps 
through  the  street." 

Everything  was  arranged. 

Mrs.  Wistaria  and  her  husband  set  off  for 
San  Jose. 

I  am  a  merchant-lady. 

The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  put  up  a  digni- 
fied sign  with  the  following  black  letters  : 

MORNING  OLORY  CIGAR  STORE. 

I  borrowed  a  picture  from  Mrs.  Willis'  par- 
lour, and  placed  it  by  the  slot  machine. 

It  is  the  picture  of  a  dear  Injun  sitting 
against  a  woodland  fire  with  a  respectable  pipe, 
whose  smoke  sails  up  to  the  yellow  moon. 
What  resignation  !  What  dream  !  What  joy  ! 
It  did  suit  beautifully  for  the  cigar-stand. 

I  love  to  see  a  man  smoking.  The  elfish 
smoke  acts  like  a  merry-hearted  May  gossamer. 
When  I  observe  a  man's  eye  pursuing  his 
smoke,  I  say  to  myself  that  his  soul  must  be 
stepping  nearer  to  his  ideal.  The  road  of 
smoke  is  the  road  of  poesy. 

A  noble  trade  is  tobacco. 

Man's  hermitage  is  situated  only  in  smoking, 
I  should  say. 


150  The  American  Diary 

I  divested  my  uncle  of  his  coat.  I  begged 
him  to  hold  a  bucket  and  a  piece  of  cloth  for  a 
moment. 

"  Are  you  ready  to  wash  the  windows, 
Uncle?"  I  said. 

"Traitor,  Morning  Glory!"  He  flashed 
his  accusing  glare. 

Docile  old  man  ! 

He  cleaned  four  windows  of  the  kitchen, 
which  was  also  the  dining-room  and  the  parlour. 

I  paid  him  five  cents  for  each. 

I  said  :  "  It's  good  fun  to  hire  the  chief 
secretary  of  the  Nippon  Mining  Company  to 
rub  windows,  isn't  it?" 

And  I  laughed, 

Then  I  forced  him  to  buy  a  cigar. 

"  You  made  some  twenty  cents  out  of  me. 
Your  turn  is  coming,  my  uncle  !  "  I  said. 

I   sold  him  a  box  of  Lillian    Russell  cigars 

O 

for  three  dollars.     The  real  price  was  two. 
Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

1 2th — I  invited  my  precious  Ada  to  my 
store  to  dine  a  la  Japonaise. 

One  Jap  restaurant  catered  to  it. 

"  Irrashaimashi !     Condescend    to    enter  !  " 


of  a.  Japanese  Girl  1 5 1 

I  showered  my  wooden-clogged  greeting  over 
Ada. 

From  "  The  Klondyke,"  my  neighbouring 
saloon,  a  nigger  song  was  flapping  in. 

"  If  you  ain't  got  no  money,  you  needn't  come  round." 

Happy  Ada  San  ! 

She  was  about  to  join  in  it,  when  I  brought 
her  into  my  great  dining-room. 

(Beg  pardon,  it  was  a  paltry  kitchen  !) 

Everything  was  seen  on  the  table. 

Japanese  dinner  has  no  strict  order  of 
courses.  You  are  a  frolicsome  butterfly 
among  the  dishes  set  like  flowers  before  you. 
You  may  flit  straight  to  any  one  which  catches 
your  whim. 

"  Take  your  honourable  chop-sticks  !  "  I  said. 

Poor  Miss  Ada  ! 

"  How  shall  I  manage  with  one  stick?  "  she 
raised  her  eyelids  in  questioning  meekness. 

I  bade  her  to  split  the  stick  in  two.  It  was 
a  brand  new  wooden  one.  I  showed  her  how 
to  finger  it. 

She  nibbled  a  bit  from  each  dish.  Every 
time  she  tasted  she  looked  upon  me  with  a 
suspicious  smile. 


i52  The  American  Diary 

And  how  she  slipped  her  sticks  at  the  crit- 
ical moment  ! 

The  sight  amused  me  hugely. 

"How  dare  I  swallow  raw  fishes  !  "  she  said 
shrinking. 

"  What  delight  I  taste  in  them  !  "  I  slammed 
back  at  her  timidity. 

Then  I  dipped  a  few  cuts  of  the  fishes  into 
a  porcelain  soy  pan  for  my  mouth. 

I  even  trampled  into  her  fish-dish  by  and  by. 

She  was  literally  terrified. 

The  feast  was  over.  I  said,  "  Go  yukkuri  ! 
Honourable  not-to-be-in-a-hurry  !  "  I  slid  away. 

I  tied  my  white  apron  like  a  shop  girl.  I 
was  glad  that  I  did  not  forget  to  push  a  lead- 
pencil  through  my  hair.  I  presented  myself 
to  Ada  carrying  a  cigarette  box. 

"  Will  you  buy  tobacco  for  your  lord  ?  " 

I  spread  the  box  before  her. 

"  How  much  for  one  packet,"  she  asked 
with  the  charming  arrogance  of  a  customer. 

She  was  acting  also. 

"  To-day  is  the  memorial  day  of  Lord  Nono 
Sama.  My  sweet  Oku  San,  allow  me  to  make 
a  reduction  ! " 

Then  we  laughed. 


HOW    DARE    I    SWALLOW    RAW    FISHES  ! 


Drawn  by  Genjiro  Veto 


of  a.  Japanese  Girl  153 

1 3th — I  created  much  noise  in  the  Jap 
colony  ! 

Why  not  ? 

Many  brown  men  pause  by  my  store  and 
buy,  simply  because  they  can  address  a  word 
or  two  to  me. 

They  are  silly,  aren't  they  ? 

I  announce  that  I  am  tired  of  their  faces. 
I  have  never  met  one  progressive-seeming 
Oriental  since  I  landed.  They  are  like  a  dry 
tree.  Are  their  souls  dying  ? 

"  Well,  that's  why,  they  have  no  girl,"  my 
uncle  conclusioned. 

He  is  so  bright  once  in  a  while. 

Why  not  make  love  with  Meriken  musume? 

I  said  I  would  petition  the  Tokio  govern- 
ment to  transplant  her  women. 

It  may  ruin  the  Japanese  girl's  name,  was  my 
afterthought,  if  they  ship  only  the  homely  gang. 

Lovely  girl  has  no  longing  to  sail  over  the 
ocean.  She  has  plenty  of  chance  to  grow  a 
flower  bride  at  home. 

I  pity  my  native  boys  of  this  city. 

"Jap!     Jap!" 

They  are  dashed  with  such  exclamations 
from  every  corner. 


154  The  American  Diary 

As  for  me  the  sound  of  "  Jap  "  is  my  taste, 
so  I  spray  it  in  my  writing. 

I  took  up  again  my  knitting  work  which  I 
had  commenced  on  the  seas.  Nothing  could 
be  more  decent  to  fill  up  my  leisure  in  the 
store. 

My  little  neck  fell,  as  I  was  intent  on  my 
stocking. 

Some  one  spoke  above  my  head  :  "  How  is 
business  ?  " 

"  So,  so  !  "   I  replied  in  businesslike  reserve. 

I  lifted  my  face. 

Oya,  he  was  Mr.  Consul. 

"  Will  you  sell  me  a  cigar?" 

"  Things  are  becoming  awfully  high.  Mine 
is  a  distinctly  dear  store.  Do  you  know  it, 
Mr.  Consul  ? " 

"  I'm  prepared  to  pay  more  at  the  beautiful 
girl's,"  he  began  to  titter. 

"  General  Arthur  cigar  has  leaped  one  dol- 
lar higher  since  Monday,  and— 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  He  mimicked  a 
sudden  alarm. 

1 4th — O  funny  drunkard  ! 

To-day  one  fellow  established  himself  before 


of  a.  Japanese  Girl  155 

my  store.  He  fixed  his  amazing  eyes  on  my 
face,  and  extended  his  hairy  hand. 

"  Hel-lo,  Japanese  !  "  he  stuttered. 

He  wanted  to  shake  hands  with  me. 

I  lengthened  my  arm,  and  slapped  his  face. 
I  withdrew  directly  within,  and  watched  him 
from  a  hole. 

"  Ha,  ha !     She  got  mad — ha,  ha,  ha  ! " 

He  was  in  a  tip-top  state  of  mind. 

"  Let  me  help  myself  ! " 

He  pilfered  one  cigar  from  the  shelf.  He 
struck  a  match.  He  bit  the  cigar. 

"  Good  ! "  he  muttered. 

He  tossed  himself  away  with  ludicrous  dig- 
nity, singing : 

"  Pon  pili,  yon,  pon,  pon  !" 

"  This  is  undeniably  a  tough  place  !  "  I  ex- 
claimed. 

1 5th — Night  has  just  arrived. 

Only  ten  minutes  ago  a  white-capped  "Jim  " 
(I  overheard  people  calling  him  so)  lighted  a 
paper  lantern  labelled  "  Tomales."  He  is  an 
eating-stand  keeper  across  the  street.  The 
loafers  passed.  There  was  some  time  to 
watch  the  lazy  parade.  It  was  a  blank  hour 


156  The  American  Diary 

of  Saturday  when  he  could  puff  a  whiff  of 
smoke. 

The  prankish  songs  ceased. 

Even  in  Dupont  Street  I  am  given  a  page 
of  dream. 

The  barkeeper  of  "  Remember  the  Maine  " 
called  at  my  store. 

"  Remember  the  Maine  ?  " 

It  is  a  name  cheap  as  the  grimness  of  a 
toothless  woman. 

Mr.  Barkeeper  had  something  to  say,  I 
imagined. 

I  offered  a  stem  of  cigarette. 

"  Do  you  ever  hear  a  bloody  cry  at  night  ?  " 
he  began  his  chapter,  gathering  a  medley  of 
gravity  on  his  brow. 

"Scream?     No!" 

"  Never  mind!" 

He  turned  aside.  I  thought  he  was  playing 
a  threadbare  artifice  of  a  story-teller  to  tanta- 
lise my  fancy. 

"Tell  me  why!" 

I  knew  I  became  his  victim. 

"  I  fear  I  do  scare  you." 

"  No  !     I  never "  I  leaned  forward. 

"  To  begin  with " 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  157 

He  stopped,  looking  around. 

"Your  kitchen — don't  be  scared — is  close 
by  a  haunted  room  of  a  house  on  Pine  Street. 
It's  no  story.  A  chorus  girl  lived — well,  some 
five  years  ago — in  that  house  with  her  step- 
mother. Just  think  !  The  old  hen  of  sixty- 
five  fell  in  love  with  her  daughter's  lover.  Do 
you  understand  ?  She  saw  one  morning  the 
young  fellow  kissing  her  daughter.  She  went 
crazy.  She  shot  him.  Isn't  it  awful  ?  The 
murderess  leaned  against  the  wall  by  your 
kitchen,  and  cried,  '  I  killed  him  ! '  I  swear  to 
you  that  it  is  all  true.  So,  people  say,  a  wail 
is  heard  at  night  from  your  side." 

"  Mah  !  Mah  !  "  I  breathed. 

"  That  is  all." 

He  retired  heavily. 

Do  I  believe  it? 

"  No  !  No  ! "  I  denied. 

But  I  was  thickly  swarmed  by  sickening  air. 
How  could  I  trust  me  in  the  kitchen ! 

I  closed  the  store. 

I  pasted  up  a  piece  of  paper  whereon  was 
written:  "NO  BUSINESS  TO-NIGHT." 

1 6th — I  had  a  stomach-ache  this  morning.  I 
couldn't  rise. 


158  The  American  Diary 

The  maid  fetched  me  some  toast  and  a  cup 
of  coffee. 

I  think  it  is  very  nice  to  eat  in  bed. 

i  ;th — Mrs.  Wistaria  and  her  husband  re- 
turned from  San  Jose. 

She  lavished  on  me  her  thousand  arigatos. 

She  said  I  sold  sixty  per  cent  more  than  on 
any  previous  week. 

She  wished  me  to  condescend  to  accept  a 
"  meagre "  fifteen  dollars  as  a  share  of  the 
profits. 

I  refused  it. 

1 8th — My  letter  to  Miss  Pine  Leaf  (who 
wept  with  me  reading  Keats'  love-letters  one 
mournful  night)  is  as  follows  : 

"  MATSUBA  SAN  : 

'  Hitofude  mairase  soro. 

"  '  I  have  the  honour  to  present  a  brief  writ- 
ing.' 

"  Let  me  omit  the  shopworn  form  of  Japa- 
nese letter-writing!  Its  redundant  '  honour- 
ables '  are  more  cheap  than  honourable. 

"Satetoya ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  159 

"  Shall  I  begin  my  letter  with  a  deep  bow  ? 

"Bow? 

"  I  use  it  occasionally  before  Meriken  San  for 
sport's  sake.  But  it  is  degenerating,  in  my 
opinion,  to  comic  opera,  like  the  tortoise-shell- 
framed  spectacles  of  a  Chinese  doctor. 

"  Now  I  address  you  with  a  thousand 
kisses.  . 

"  The  kiss  is  the  thing  to  begin  with  for  up- 
to-date  girls. 

"  It  is  useful,  as  a  poem  is  useful  in  filling  up 
space  in  magazine-making.  Woman — even  a 
loftily  learned  American  woman — cannot  be 
ready  always  with  her  rhetoric  of  expression. 
The  kiss  comes  to  her  relief  in  the  crisis  when- 
ever she  fails  in  speech. 

"  The  kiss  is  everything. 

"The  Jap  girl  is  intimate  with  the  art  of 
crying. 

"  A  kiss  is  as  eloquent  as  a  tear. 

"  I  suppose  the  cleverness  of  American  wo- 
man is  graded  by  the  way  she  handles  it.  It 
strikes  me  that  every  white  girl  is  perfectly  at 
home  with  it. 

"  She  is  awfully  bright. 

"  You  wonder  why  she  is  so  ? 


160  The  American  Diary 

"  There  is  one  reason  that  I  can  tell  you.  It 
is  because  she  has  a  serious  job  to  pick  out 
her  husband  herself.  I  don't  think  it  is  fair  to 
blame  her  growing  insipid  after  marriage. 
Every  one  feels  tired  when  a  weighty  work  is 
done.  What  would  be  her  doom  if  she  were 
stupid?  An  old  maid  is  such  a  sad  sight,  like 
a  broken  clock,  or  a  cradle  after  baby's  death. 
Isn't  it  dreadful  to  have  nothing  to  rejoice  in 
but  a  customary  tea  or  books  ?  Literary  critic 
is  one  occupation  left  for  her.  Worse  than 
death  ! 

"  I  am  pained  to  state  that  our  brown  sisters 
are  extremely  behind  time. 

("  There  are  lots  of  exceptions,  of  course,  like 
honourable  you  and  Miss  M.  G.) 

"  I  am  talking  of  common  Jap  musumes. 

"  Naturally  so. 

"  They  are  like  those  waiting  at  the  station 
for  the  next  train.  They  have  only  to  doze 
and  wait  for  the  footsteps  of  a  matchmaker 
with  a  young  man. 

"  I  am  grateful  to  the  Nippon  government 
for  stimulating  education  in  women. 

"  But  I  advise  her  to  imprison  all  the  match- 
makers. Then  the  girls  will  wake  up  at  once, 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 6 1 

like  one  who  has  everything  on  her  back  after 
papa's  passing. 

"  That  is  one  process  to  brighten  them,  I 
think. 

"Am  I  not  logical? 

"  Your  last  tegami  questioned  me  whether  the 
American  lady  was  charming. 

"  Are  you  attentive  to  western  sea  painting  ? 

"  How  does  it  impress  you  when  you  are 
close  by  it  ?  Only  a  jumble  of  paint,  isn't  it  ? 
So  with  Meriken  woman  ! 

"  You  should  be  off  half  a  dozen  steps  to  esti- 
mate her  beautiful  captivation.  You  would 
be  horrified,  otherwise,  by  her  hairy  skin. 

"  I  love  her. 

"  She  has  no  headache  like  the  Japs.  (By 
the  way,  I  will  call  Japan,  hereafter,  the  coun- 
try of  headache.)  She  lives  in  a  comedy. 

"  Nothing  turns  bad  in  Amerikey. 

"'Tragedy  To  Be  a  Woman,'  could  only 
be  seen  on  a  fiction  thrown  in  a  moth-trodden 
second-hand  store. 

"  Police  never  bother. 

"  Such  a  deliverance  ! 

"  I  am  delighted  with  my  Meriken  Kenbutsu. 

"  Sayonara  !  Yours, 

*'  MORNING  GLORY  " 


1 62  The  American  Diary 

1 9th — I  forced  Uncle  to  swear  to  me  that 
he  would  overlook  everything  I  did,  in  con- 
sideration of  my  great  service  in  darning  his 
socks. 

I  peeled  off  my  shoes  to  begin  with. 

I  sat  like  a  Turk. 

"  Why  do  you  frown  like  an  Oni  in  hell  ?  " 
I  acidified  my  smile.  I  held  my  needle  and 
thread  suspended  in  the  air,  while  I  said : 
"What  is  a  Trust?" 

"  Be  quiet !  "  he  exclaimed. 

He  didn't  even  glance  at  me,  being  engaged 
in  writing  in  the  other  nook. 

"  Uncle,  your  hair  ought  to  be  curled.  I 
will  step  in  to-morrow  morning,  and  turn  it  up 
before  you  awake.  What  do  you  think, 
Uncle?  OjiSan!" 

"  Morning  Glory  San  !" 

He  emitted  a  growl  of  satanic  despotism, 
and  soon  resumed  his  work  gracefully. 

I  thought  what  a  scandal  if  he  were  penning 
a  love  letter  to  Mrs.  Schuyler,  junior. 

I  rose.  I  approached  him  with  secret  step. 
I  fell  on  him  from  his  massy  back  and  cried  : 

"  What  are  you  scribbling?" 

Erai,  my  honourable  uncle  ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  163 

He  was  translating  Gibbon's  "  History  of 
Rome." 

I  was  stunned  from  the  shame  of  taking 
him  to  be  in  such  a  wretched  line  even  in 
fancy. 

I  vowed  to  myself — with  three  low  bows — 
to  take  perfect  care  of  my  noble  worker. 

Then  I  gave  him  my  sweet  smile. 

"  Uncle,  let  me  fix  something  more  ! 
Haven't  you  anything?  Tear  your  shirt  or 
pull  off  the  buttons,  then  ! " 

2oth — Already  I  could  suck  from  the  agile 
air  the  flavour  of  spring  upon  the  lawn. 

I  was  roving  by  the  rose-bushes  along  the 
street  with  scissors. 

A  gentleman  passed  by  me.  How  slug- 
gish his  shoes  sounded  !  He  stopped,  waving 
his  old-scented  smile,  and  addressed  me  : 

"  Good  morning,  young  lady  ! " 

"OhayoP 

"I  perceive  that  you  are  Japanese." 

"  Yes,  sir  ! " 

He  stepped  nearer  to  me.  I  took  a  peep 
at  the  Bible  under  his  arm. 

"Are  you  a  Christian?"  he  lowered  his  tone. 


164  The  American  Diary 

"  Don't  you  read  the  Gospel  ? "  his  voice 
rose  higher. 

"  Don't  you  attend  church  ?  "  his  sound  grew 
higher  still. 

"  I  love  to  be  shocked.  I  couldn't  sustain 
myself  against  a  bore.  Church?  It's  too 
sleepy,  don't  you  know  ?  I  have  remarked 
that  God  is  with  me  without  any  sort  of 
prayer,  if  I  trace  the  path  of  righteousness. 
A  minister  is  only  a  meddling  grandmamma  to 
my  mind.  If  I  ever  build  my  ideal  city,  two 
things  shall  not  be  tolerated.  One  is  a  lawyer's 
office  and  the  other  is  a  church.  Church,  sir ! 
May  I  present  you  with  one  rose  ?  " 

I  raised  me  to  place  it  in  his  coat. 

"  Here's  a  letter  for  you,  Morning  Glory  !" 

I  was  rescued  by  my  uncle.  How  angelic 
his  voice  rang ! 

"  I'm  sorry,  I'm  much  occupied  this  very 
morning,"  I  said,  bowing  slightly. 

I  pushed  myself  within  the  door. 

Poor  preacher ! 

2ist — My  answer  to  Oscar  is  as  follows  : 

"  DEAR  HONOURABLE  MR.  ELLIS  : 

"  Let  me  begin  in  respectable  fashion  ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  165 

"  A  Jap  girl  is  awfully  formal. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Ellis,  whom  you  are 
addressing  ? 

"  I  am  an  Oriental. 

"Nippon  daughters  believe  'ev'rithin"  a 
gentleman  mentions. 

"  They  have  been  fooled  enough,  I  should 
declare,  in  American  fiction.  Oscar — no,  Mr. 
Ellis — don't  let  me  earn  the  anecdote  that  I 
drifted  to  Ameriky  to  be  toyed  with  !  My 
ancestor  did  a  harakiri.  I  am  pretty  sure  I 
have,  then,  to  kill  myself. 

"  Don't  recite  again  your  honourable  confes- 
sion of  love ! 

"  It  made  me  cry. 

"  My  dark  face  with  drenched  eyes  will 
degrade  me  to  a  hired  Chinese  '  crying 
woman.' 

"Your  narration  was  dramatic. 

"  Your  cleverness  is  the  most  lamentable 
thing  about  you.  Woman  used  to  love  a  bright 
fellow  many  years  ago.  Do  you  know  that 
the  modern  girl  woos  a  stupid  man  ? 

"  Please,  don't  repeat  again  such  an  adjective 
as  'heavenly'  for  my  face!  No  one  utters 
the  word  '  heaven  '  except  in  swearing.  Even 


1 66  The  American  Diary 

ministers  juggle  with  it  for  a  jest  in  church,  I 
suppose.  My  face  isn't  heavenly  at  all.  You 
know  it,  don't  you  ? 

"  You  amused  me,  however,  when  you  told 
how  you  had  pillaged  my  picture  from  Mother 
Schuyler's  room  to  put  in  your  own,  feigning 
that  it  needed  to  be  retouched. 

"  Poor  Mother  Schuyler! 

"If  she  knew  your  secret ! 

"  Frankly,  I  fear  that  such  a  gentleman  as 
you  does  commit  forgery  always.  Have  you 
no  consanguinity  with  a  convict? 

"  O  such  a  wretched  boy  ! 

"  The  saddest  thing  about  a  woman  is  that 
she  is  glad  to  fall  in  love  with  the  worthless. 

"  Do  I  love  you  ? 

"  Give  me  time  to  reply  to  the  question  ! 

"  Everything  is  tardy  with  a  Japanese.  I 
was  educated  by  slowness ;  I  bow  one  dozen 
times  before  I  speak. 

"  O  Oscar,  you  got  to  think  of  my  side  a 
little  bit ! 

"  Every  girl  claims  that  she  has  half  a  popu- 
lation as  adorers  in  her  pocket  handkerchief. 

"  You  are  the  only  one  young  American  I 
ever  met. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  167 

"  If  I  accept  your  love,  I  am  afraid  one  may 
satirise  my  destitution. 

"  You'll  write  me  soon,  won't  you  ? 

"  Yours,  M.  G. 

"  P.  S. — I  wish  I  could  show  you  how  charm- 
ingly I  smoke.  I  learned  the  art  recently.  I 
tap  the  cigarette  with  my  middle  finger  to 
knock  the  ashes  off.  It  is  delightful  to  heap 
a  hill  of  ashes  on  the  table  edge.  When  I 
puff,  finding  no  word  after  '  And — '  the  smoke 
seems  to  be  speaking  for  me. 

"  But  I  assure  you  that  I  smoked  only  be- 
fore my  uncle. 

"  I  was  a  pretty  naughty  girl  at  home,  but  I 
flatter  myself  that  I  can  easily  be  classed 
among  the  best  in  this  country. 

"White  women  behave  terribly,  you  know." 

22nd — I  passed  the  afternoon  at  Mrs.  Con- 
sul's. She  gave  me  her  "  favourite  "  discourse 
on  Walt  Whitman. 

I  delivered  to  my  uncle  what  I  had  learned. 

"  No  newness  in  it.  It  is  what  dear  John 
Burroughs  or  Mr.  Stedman  said." 

He  overturned  my  castle  with  one  blow,  and 
lit  his  cigar  with  a  victorious  air. 


1 68  The  American  Diary 

I  was  enraged. 

"  Yes,  yes,  eraiwa !  Oriental  gentleman 
knows  everything  we  poor  women  know,"  I 
said. 

I  sulkily  drew  away  to  my  room  with  Mr. 
Whitman's  fat  book,  that  I  borrowed  from  Mrs. 
Consul. 

23rd — A  letter  from  my  father  arrived. 

"  O  Papa,  please  don't  !  I  am  tired  of  such 
a  dirty  conference."  I  scoffed. 

I  tore  the  paper  into  shreds. 

"  What  a  sullen  lady  !  What  did  Otto  San 
write  ?  Marriage  proposal,  I  reckon  !  "  my 
uncle  intruded. 

"  Papa  threatened  me  with  a  list  of  suitors. 
He  cried,  '  Chance,  chance  ! '  like  the  gate- 
man  of  an  ennichi  show.  Pray  grant  me  for 
once  in  my  life,  Uncle,  to  say :  '  The  mar- 
riage lottery  go  to  the  dogs  ! '  How  many  Jap 
girls  kill  themselves  from  the  burden  of  such 
a  glued  union,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

"  Then,  '  free  marriage  '  ?  " 

"  Of  course  ! " 

"  It's  very  beautiful,  Miss  Morning  Glory." 

"Why  not?" 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 69 

"  You  are  Japanese,  aren't  you  ?  " 
"  Did  you  ever  think  I  was  a  Meriken  jin  ?  " 
"Well,  then,  how   did  you    come    to    know 
young  men  in  a  country  where  familiarity  with 
one  is  regarded  as  a  crime  for  a  girl  ?  " 
"  Things  all  wrong  in  Nippon,  Uncle  !  " 
"  I  am  sorry  you  were  born  a  Jap." 
"  I'll  never  go  back  to  Japan,  I  think.     The 
dictionary   for   Jap  girls    comprises    no    such 
word    as'    'No.'     But   you    must    remember, 
Uncle,  I  have  the  capital   '  No '   in  my  head. 
I  am  a  revolutionist,"  I  proclaimed. 

Then  I  thought  much  of  my  dear  Oscar. 


24th — My  worthy  labourer  upon  Gibbon's 
work  sat  before  the  table  for  some  hours. 

I  stood  behind  him  and  dropped  the  fluid 
from  a  bottle  on  his  head. 

"Cold!  What  are  you  doing,  my  little 
romp  ?"  He  looked  up  in  a  fright. 

"  No  harm,  Uncle  !  It  is  only  a  remedy. 
Your  hair  is  growing  so  thin.  Do  you  know 
it  ?  I  think  it  a  shame  to  appear  in  Greater 
New  York  with  a  bald  gentleman." 

I  bought  the  bottle  this  morning. 


170  The  American  Diary 

25th — A  bamboo  table  in  my  room  re- 
minded me  of  a  take  bush  in  the  neighbouring 
churchyard  of  my  Tokio  home. 

(I  cannot  sound  Meriken  jin's  curiosity  in 
prizing  such  a  cheap  thing.  The  bamboo  was 
painted.  The  cross  nails  glared  from  every- 
where. I  never  saw  such  a  Jap  work  in 
Nippon.) 

Dear  take,  O  bamboo  bush  ! 

How  I  used  to  laugh,  breaking  the  dreams 
of  sparrows  by  wriggling  the  bush  ! 

I  was  so  ungoverned. 

If  I  could  be  a  grammar  school  girl  again  ! 

I  secured  a  reader  at  a  bookstall.  My  mind 
was  made  up  to  present  myself  in  the  Lincoln 
night  school  and  mingle  with  the  girls  in 
"SEE  THE  BOY  AND  THE  DOG!" 

What  fun  ! 

I  went  to  see  the  stooping  principal.  His 
tarnished  frock-coat — I  fancied  he  was  an  old 
bachelor,  as  one  button  was  off — was  just  the 
thing  for  such  a  rdle. 

I  seemed  to  him  a  regular  nenne  of  thirteen. 

He  was  heartily  pleased  with  my  greediness 
for  learning  English. 

Poor  soul ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 7 1 

He  ushered  me  into  the  class  for  which  I 
had  brought  the  book. 

It  was  the  hour  for  composition.  "  Ocean," 
the  subject. 

When  I  was  seated,  the  girl  next  me  winked 
charmingly.  She  threw  me  a  note  within  a 
minute,  to  which  I  promptly  replied,  "  Morn- 
ing Glory."  My  note  was  answered  "  Miss 
Madge,  340  Mission  Street."  I  wrote  her, 
"  May  I  call  on  you  to-morrow  ?  "  for  which 
she  wrote,  "  As  you  please." 

I  was  placed  on  the  dangerous  verge  of 
clapping  Byron's  poem  into  my  "  Ocean."  I 
manufactured  one  dozen  of  spelling  errors. 

"  You  should  belong  to  some  higher  class. 
Take  this  slip  to  the  principal!"  the  teacher 
said.  "  You  have  an  imagination."  She  wiped 
her  spectacles  slowly. 

I  left  the  room  remarking,  "  Because  I  am 
a  Japanese." 

I  slipped  away  from  the  school  altogether. 

"One  experience  is  plenty,"  I  declared. 


26th — I  went  to  Mission  Street  to  call  on 
Madge. 


The  American  Diary 

From  both  sides  of  the  street  peeped  the 
famous  Jewish  noses.  The  second-hand  cloth- 
ing shops  parade.  How  droll  to  see  those 
noses  shrivelling  like  a  lobster  ! 

Madge's  father  owns  a  despicable  restaurant 
with  only  four  eating  tables.  Mamma  cooks, 
while  she  sits  on  the  counter. 

When  I  appeared,  she  shot  out,  greeting  me  : 
"  Hello,  Morning  Glory  ! " 

"Awfully  glad  to  see  you  !  I  have  come  to 
help  you,  haven't  I  ?" 

I  was  ready  to  strip  off  my  jacket  and  wind 
myself  in  her  apron. 

Her  papa  was  dumbfounded  by  my  sudden 
action. 

The  outside  board  with  the  bill  of  fare  was 
scraped  out  by  this  morning's  rain.  It  looked 
as  miserable  as  an  Italian  vegetable  wagon 
under  the  rain. 

My  first  work  was  to  rewrite  it. 

I  saw  a  Jew  at  a  neighbouring  door  striving 
with  one  about  the  value  of  pants.  A  shoe- 
maker's "pan,  pan"  hammered  on  my  head 
from  the  opposite  house. 

Mission  Street  is  the  street  of  horse-dung. 

When  my  job  was  over,  an  honourable  Mr. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 73 

Wagon  Driver  leaped  in,  bidding  me  serve 
some  soup. 

I  ran  into  the  kitchen  to  fetch  it. 

I  spilled  it  on  the  table. 

"  That's  all  right,  honey  ! "  he  said  in  pat- 
ronising aloofness,  and  pierced  my  face  with 
his  gummy  red  eyes. 

0  Kowaya  !     Shocking  ! 

1  put    one    five    dollar    piece    of    gold    on 
Madge's  palm  when  I  left  her. 

Because  her  shoes  were  heelless. 
Pity  the  musume  ! 


27th —  I  bought  one  book,  being  captivated 
by  its  title.  Isn't  "  When  Knighthood  was  in 
Flower  "  beautifully  chivalrous  ? 

I  have  remarked  that  every  Imperial  cruiser 
anchors  at  an  isle  close  by  Loo  Choo,  just  on 
account  of  the  enticement  in  the  name  "  Come 
and  See." 

I  found  in  my  trunk  an  introduction  to  Miss 
Rose  by  my  professor  friend  of  Tokio  'ver- 
sity. 

Miss  Rose  ? 

My  imagination  started  to  move  like  a  watch. 


174  The  American  Diary 

I  fancied  she  should  be  nineteen,  since  she  was 
a  Miss.  No  Rose  girl  can  be  homely. 

I  went  to  see  her. 

Alas! 

She  was  a  lady  like  a  beer-barrel.  Her 
finger-nails  were  black. 

I  left  her  like  a  miner  stepping  out  of  a  gold 
mountain  with  empty  hands. 

I  wonder  why  the  mayor  didn't  object  to 
letting  an  ugly  woman  be  crowned  with  a  pretty 
name. 

Fifty-years-old  Miss  Rose  ! 

Now  I  fear  to  read  Mr.  Major's  book. 

28th — The  following  is  my  letter  to  Mr. 
Oscar : 

"  OSCAR  SAN  !     ELLIS  SAN  ! 

"  I  never  liked  your  profession,  simply  be- 
cause it  is  too  beautiful. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  cannot  transfer  to 
some  other  business. 

"  I  have  been  ever  so  much  fascinated  with 
odd  sorts  of  manual  work.  If  I  were  a  gentle- 
man, I  would  very  likely  pursue  the  calling  of 
grave-digger  or  sea-diver. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 75 

"  Yesterday  I  passed  by  some  labourers 
breaking  massive  stones.  They  lifted  their 
hammers  (O  Oscar,  look  at  their  muscles  !  ) 
and  knocked  them  down  to  the  sound  of  '  Sara 
bagun  ! '  They  jerked  the  'sara  bagun,' 
Oscar.  Does  it  mean  'ready?'  Mrs.  Wil- 
lis' Century  dictionary  must  be  imperfect,  since 
it  does  not  contain  such  a  word.  Am  I  mis- 
spelling ? 

"  Suppose  I  marry  one  of  those  ! 

"  He  will  return  home  awfully  tired.  He  will 
naturally  doze  after  dinner.  When  his  smok- 
ing pipe  has  slipped  from  his  lips  and  burned 
my  best  tablecloth,  isn't  it  possible  that  I  will 
be  mad  ?....!  startled  him,  pulling  his 
hair  ever  so  hard.  Now  you  must  think  that 
he  grew  mad  also.  He  seized  my  arm,  and 
beat  me.  O  Oscar,  he  beat  me  surely  !  .  .  .  . 
Then  he  will  repent  his  conduct,  and  kneel 
by  my  side,  begging  my  forgiveness.  He  will 
say,  '  My  dear  sweet  wife — ' 

"  Do  you  know  how  interesting  it  is  to  be 
beaten  by  a  husband  ? 

"  I  well-nigh  fixed  my  mind  never  to  affiance 
with  a  man  too  genteel  to  hit  me. 

"  Woman  is  a  revolting  little  bit  of  thing. 


176  The  American  Diary 

"  If  you  say  'Yes,'  I  am  quite  ready  to  slam 
my  'No  !' 

"  Oscar  San  ! 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  are  too  amiable. 

"  What  you  have  to  do  for  your  next  missive 
is  to  collect  every  kind  of  dreadful  adjectives 
from  your  dictionary,  and  throw  them  in. 

"You  know  what  to  do  when  I  get  angry, 
don't  you  ? 

"  Ellis  San  ! 

"You  are  too  handsome. 

"  I  am  fond  of  a  comely  face  as  anybody 
else. 

"  But  I  fancy  often  how  it  would  be  if  I  fell 
in  love  with  a  deformity. 

"  People  would  laugh  at  me  doubtless.  But 
how  dramatic  it  would  be  when  I  proclaimed, 
'  Because  I  love  him  ! ' 

"  What  a  romantic  phrase  that  is  ! 

"  Can't  you  deform  yourself  ? 

"  Sayonara, 

"  With  a  thousand  bows, 
"M.   G. 

"  P.  S. — My  letter  never  finishes  without  a 
P.  S. 

"  Isn't  that  awful  ? 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  177 

"  My  uncle  asked  me  whom  I  was  correspond- 
ing with.  I  mentioned  '  Olive.' 

"  Old  man  is  jealous  always. 

"  So  you  got  to  counterfeit  your  sister's  pen- 
manship for  your  envelope." 

2  Qth — I  drank  the  last  drop  of  my  coffee. 

"  Oji  San,  when  shall  we  go  to  New  York?" 
I  said,  pillowing  my  face  on  my  hands  on  the 
breakfast  table. 

"  As  soon  as  spring  begins  to  flicker  in  the 
East,  my  little  woman  !  It's  snow  and  snow 
there  at  present." 

"  I  love  snow,  Uncle." 

"  Old  gentleman  can't  bear  tyrannical  cold, 
Morning  Glory." 

"  Don't  you  notice  how  tired  I  am  of  Frisco  ? 
Aren't  you  tired  ?" 

"Yes— frankly!" 

"  Why  don't  you  then  contrive  some  novel 
diversion  to  pass  a  month  ?  " 

"  I've  a  fancy,  but " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It  may  not  strike  you  as  romantic." 

"Tell  me!" 

"  I  am  known  to  one  poet  who  dreams  and 


178  The  American  Diary 

erects  a  stone  wall  on  the  hillside.  He  is  un- 
like another.  His  garden  and  cottage  are 
open  to  everybody.  I  ever  incline  to  loaf  in 
an  irregular  puff  of  odour  from  his  acacia  trees. 
If  you  lean  towards  a  poetical  life,  I  have  no 
hesitation  in  seeing  him  to  make  an  arrange- 
ment." 

"  Great  Uncle,  it's  romantic !  Is  he 
married  ?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Because  a  poet  is  not  one  woman's  prop- 
erty, but  universal.  My  ideal  poet  is  melan- 
choly. Fat  poet  is  ridiculous.  Happy  poet 
isn't  of  the  highest  order.  Tennyson?  I 
wish  his  life  had  been  more  hard  up.  I  sup- 
pose your  friend-poet  won't  mind  if  I  sleep  all 
day.  Is  he  particular  about  the  dinner  time  ? 
Does  he  look  up  to  the  stars  every  night  ? 
Does  he  wash  his  shirt  once  in  a  while  ?" 

"Stop!" 

Then  I  asked  respectably : 

"  Is  the  sight  from  there  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Wonderful  !  The  only  place  where  you 
can  breathe  the  air  of  divinity !  " 

"Very  well,  Uncle.  We  will  settle  there, 
and  hasten  to  become  poets." 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 79 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,  I  say,  to  start 
again  with  your  honourable  '  Lotos  Eaters  ! ' ' 

"  '  Paradise  Lost '  shall  be  my  next  sub- 
ject." 

"  If  nobody  publishes  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  present  it  solemnly  to  our  Empress. 
She  is  a  poetess,  you  know." 

My  uncle  went  to  see  Mr.  Poet. 

3Oth — Uncle  said  that  the  poet  said  :  "You 
are  welcome,  sir.  The  cottage  for  your  young 
lady  lies  by  one  willow  tree.  The  waters,  the 
air,  the  grand  view,  are  God's.  It  costs  a  wee 
bit  of  money  to  provide  the  best  coffee.  I  tell 
you  that  my  claret  is  superb.  You  shall  be 
my  guest  as  long  as  you  please.  Present  my 
love  to  Miss  Morning  Glory !  Everything 
will  be  ready  when  you  come." 

"  Isn't  he  adorable  ?"  I  ejaculated. 

I  stirred  my  trunk,  and  sifted  out  the  things 
needful  for  my  adventure. 

3 1  st — To-morrow  ! 

THE  HEIGHTS,  Feb.  ist 
Let  me  recline  heart-to-heart  on  the  breast 
of    Mother    Nature !      Let    me    retreat    to    a 


180  The  American  Diary 

hillside  not  far  from  the  city,  yet  verily  near 
to  God  !  Let  me  go  to  my  poet  abode  ! 

We  abandoned  the  Fruitvale  car  at  the 
hill-foot. 

My  uncle  picked  out  our  destination  from 
the  speckles  in  the  distance. 

The  breeze  (how  heavenly  is  a  country 
breeze  !  )  enticed  my  soul — a  Jap  girl  also  is 
provided  with  some  soul — into  "  Far-Beyond." 

"  I  feel  myself  another  girl,  Uncle." 

"How?" 

"  I'm  a  poet  already.  The  poet  without 
poem  is  greater,  don't  you  know  ?  " 

We  climbed  the  hill  slowly.  Every  step 
enlarged  the  spectacle. 

When  we  attained  to  one  wildly  well-kept 
garden,  the  whole  bay  of  the  Golden  Gate 
stretched  before  us.  A  thousand  villages 
knelt  humbly  like  vassals. 

I  saw  a  tiny  gate  with  the  sign  : 

"  Fruit  Grower." 

An  old  gentleman  appeared  from  a  cottage, 
singing . 

"  Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum  !  " 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 8 1 

"  Poet !  "  Uncle  whispered. 

Let  me  now  examine  him ! 

What  lengthy  hair  he  wore ! 

It  didn't  annoy  me,  however,  because  he 
stamped  himself  on  my  mind  as  if  he  were  an 
ancient  statue.  I  imagined  him  a  type  of 
mediaeval  squire.  I  thought  of  him  truly  as 
one  metamorphosed  from  the  frontispiece  of  a 
wholly  forgotten  volume  in  a  cobwebbed  recess 
of  a  library. 

His  courteous  voice  was  simply  dignified. 

"  Nature  never  hurries.  God  commands 
you  every  happiness  and  all  repose.  Here's 
your  little  home,  my  gentle  lady  !  I  am  at 
your  service  any  time.  I  hope  you  will  find  it 
comfortable." 

He  set  me  at  the  "Willow  Cottage." 

He  slipped  gracefully  away. 

There  was  some  time  before  I  heard  his 
"kotsu  kotsu  "  on  my  door. 

I  opened  it. 

"  Greeting  from  the  host ! "  Mr.  Heine 
offered  me  a  tuft  of  brisk  roses. 

Heine  was  the  poet's  name. 

How  loving ! 

I  buried  myself  in  the  thought   of  straying 


1 82  The  American  Diaiy 

to  a  fairy  isle,  and  being  accepted  romantically 
by  the  dwellers. 

I  suspected  that  I  was  dreaming. 

"  Arcadia ! "  I  exclaimed,  when  the  poet 
announced  that  supper  would  be  prepared 
within  half  an  hour. 

I  spied  him  through  the  window,  gathering 
the  loppings  of  trees  and  leaves.  He  made  a 
camp-fire.  Its  soft  smoke  surged  into  the  sky. 
Oh,  smell  it  ! 

How  fascinating  is  the  Poet's  life ! 

I  ran  out,  crying : 

"  Pray,  make  me  useful !  " 

2nd — Dream  and  reality  are  not  marked 
here  by  different  badges.  They  waltz  round. 
Dear  poet  home  ! 

Was  it  in  my  dream  that  I  heard  the  tinkle 
of  bells  ? 

I  thought  something  was  going  on. 

I  parted  from  the  bed.  I  pushed  out  my 
face  from  the  window. 

Look  at  the  procession  of  cows  ! 

I  have  read  much  of  them,  but  I  admit  that 
it  was  my  first  occasion  to  admire  them.  I  am 
a  trivial  Jap,  only  acquainted  with  cherry 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 83 

blossoms  and  lanterns.  How  I  wished  to  knot 
the  bells  round  my  waist,  and  whisk  down  the 
path  by  the  violets  ! 

"  Lover's  lane  !" 

It  should  be  the  title  for  that  path,  I  thought, 
if  I  were  Mr.  Poet. 

I  finished  my  toilet.  I  leaped  out  upon  the 
grasses  smiling  up  to  the  sunlight. 

I  congratulated  myself  on  my  new  life. 

Then  I  found  my  uncle  sitting  by  the  camp- 
fire. 

"Ohayo  !"  I  said,  filling  the  seat  on  another 
side. 

I  remember  one  Japanese  essay,  "The 
Poetry  of  a  Tea  Kettle."  Indeed  !  The  kettle 
was  a  singer.  Its  melody  was  far-reaching. 
It  was  like  a  harp  of  pine  leaves  fingered  by  the 
zephyr. 

I  faced  up,  and  saw  my  poet  moving  down 
from  the  lily  pond.  TWD  frogs  in  his  hand. 

"  Frogs  ?  "   I  cried. 

"  They  will  complete  our  table.  How  did 
you  sleep,  my  lady  ?  " 

"Splendid!" 

"  Do  you  love  the  country?" 

"  I  begin  to  taste  a.  greater  joy  in  Nature." 


184  The  American  Diary 

"  I'm  happy  to  hear  it,  my  dear.  My  life  is 
like  the  life  of  a  bird.  I  awake  when  the  sun 
rises.  I  lay  me  in  the  bed  at  the  bird's  dipping 
into  its  nest.  God  made  the  night  for  keep- 
ing quiet.  That  is  better  than  prayer  itself. 
I  light  neither  lamp  nor  candle.  I  presume 
that  every  young  lady  has  certain  secret  work 
at  night.  Let  me  offer  you  a  few  candles  ! " 

We  ate  breakfast  from  the  table  by  the  fire. 

Frogs  supplied  a  special  dish. 

I  couldn't  touch  it,  thinking  of  the  songs  of 
frogs  that  I  had  heard  all  the  night  long. 

Such  a  song  !  It  was  the  muddy-booted 
song  of  the  countryside.  No  valuable  quality 
in  it,  of  course.  But  I  should  say  that  they 
tried  the  best  they  could. 

Poor  Messrs.  Frog  ! 

I  fancied  the  leg  in  my  dish  was  that  of  one 
who  volunteered  to  sing  my  lullaby. 

I  almost  cried  in  grief. 

The  poet  was  ready  to  wash  the  dishes.  I 
was  quick  to  snatch  his  job.  My  uncle  wiped 
them. 

Stupid  uncle  ! 

He  broke  two  dishes. 

I  collected  the  bones  of  the  frogs,  and  bur- 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  185 

ied  them.  On  the  stone  above  them  I  wrote 
with  a  pencil : 

"Tomb  of  Unknown  Singers." 

What  time  was  it  when  we  were  done  with 
our  breakfast  ? 

I  couldn't  tell. 

The  first  thing  I  did  yesterday  was  to  stop 
the  tick-tack  of  my  watch,  and  hide  it  in  the 
lowest  drawer. 

The  watch  is  a  nuisance  since  I  am  thrown 
in  THE  GARDEN  OF  ETERNITY. 

3rd — I  searched  for  a  pen  and  ink  in  my 
Willow  Cottage. 

Nothing  like  those. 

Foxy  Poet ! 

He  hid  them  from  view,  I  fancied,  in  the 
opinion  that  playing  with  them  for  a  girl  is 
more  jeopardous  than  swallowing  needles. 

I  say  that  letter-writing — particularly  a  de- 
cent love  letter,  if  there  is  one — isn't  half  so 
grave  a  crime  as  rhyming. 

I  was  spraying  some  water  on  a  rose  by  the 
gate,  when  I  caught  sight  of  a  white  quill  by 
my  shoes. 

"  This  will  serve  me  perfectly,"  I  said. 


1 86  The  American  Diary 

I  had  not  one  thing  with  any  tooth  except 
my  comb.  (Comb  ?  Luckily  I  have  not  lost 
it  Ara,  ma,  my  hairpins  !  Five  of  them  van- 
ished from  my  head  while  I  was  springing 
amid  the  rocks.  By  and  by  the  stems  of  aca- 
cia leaves  shall  be  used  in  their  places.  Don't 
you  know  this  is  quite  a  remote  spot  from  civ- 
ilisation ?)  A  kitchen  knife  shaped  my  quill 
as  a  pen. 

Now  only  ink  ! 

I  begged  Uncle  to  run  down  three  miles  to 
fetch  one  bottle. 

4th — We  went  to  "  breathe  the  song  of  the 
forest." 

The  forest  laces  the  poet's  canyon. 

(By  the  way,  poet's  ground  spreads  over 
one  hundred  and  fifty  acres.  Does  he  pay 
taxes  ?) 

We  climbed  the  "  Road  to  the  Milky  Way." 
I  beseech  your  forgiveness,  it  was  merely  the 
name  I  wished  for  the  path  to  the  poet's  hill- 
top. I  felt  as  if  I  were  hurrying  to  the  "  Ser- 
mon on  the  Mount."  You  would  hardly  be- 
lieve Morning  Glory  if  she  said  that  sublimity 
vibrated  in  her  soul,  because  she  was  just  a 


of  a,  Japanese  Girl  187 

little  Oriental.  How  grand !  We  faced 
toward  the  Gate  of  the  Pacific  Ocean.  We 
were  still.  Why  ?  Because  we  were  thinking 
the  same  thing. 

We  traversed  the  poet's  graveyard. 

How  romantic  to  put  up  a  tombstone  while 
living  ! 

How  romantic  to  lie  in  the  ectasy  of  a  mar- 
vellous view  !  We  could  be  nearer  the  stars 
here. 

We  stepped  down  to  the  canyon. 

The  poet  said  solemnly  : 

"  Lady  and  gentleman,  this  is  a  holy  place 
where  you  can  pray  heartily." 

My  uncle  started  to  drone  Bryant's  hymn  : 
"  The  groves  were  God's  first  temples," 

"  Did  you  ever  read  Thanatopsis,  my  dear  ?  " 
Mr.  Heine  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir  ! " 

"  It's  a  noble  piece.  So  many  thousand 
Asiatics  converted  every  year  to  the  English 
alphabet.  Wonderful  !  "  he  soliloquised. 

We  seated  ourselves  by  a  brook. 

"  Such  a  lesson  in  Nature  !  We  endeavour 
to  transcribe,  but  fail,"  he  sighed,  looking 
on  the  trees. 


1 88  The  American  Diary 

Then  he  turned  to  me  questioning  : 

"  Do  you  hear  the  silent  song  of  the  forest  ?  " 

I  nodded. 

"  Silence  !     Silence  ! "  he  muttered. 

We  walked  among  the  trees.  We  came 
back  to  the  same  hilltop,  when  the  large  red 
ball  of  the  sun  sank  heavily  from  the  Gate. 

"  Bye-bye  !  "  I  shook  my  handkerchief. 

The  playful  breeze  carried  it  away.  It 
glimmered  like  a  silvery  inspiration.  Who 
knows  how  far  it  sailed  ? 

I  thought  a  huge  statue  of  the  Muse  bid- 
ding sayonara  to  the  dying  sun  would  be  the 
fitting  ornamentation  for  these  Heights. 
Countless  numbers  of  people  would  look  upon 
it  from  the  valley.  It  would  be  a  salvation,  if 
they  could  bind  themselves  with  Poesy  by  its 
noble  figure.  There  was  no  question  it  would 
be  more  effective  than  a  thousand  pages  of 
poem. 

"  I  have  no  coin  to  build  it,"  the  poet  said, 
in  dear  openness. 

"  Let  me  present  it  by  and  by  ! " 

"When? 

"  When  ?  It  must  be  after  I  get  married  to 
a  rich  philanthropist." 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 89 

We  laughed. 

We  rolled  down  the  hill  in  the  purple  fra- 
grance of  evening.  The  evening  was  sweet 
like  a  legend. 

5th — I  wrote  a  letter  to  the  artist : 

"  MY  SWEET  OSCAR: 

"  You  will  love  no  more  your  Morn- 
ing Glory,  I  am  certain,  when  you  are  informed 
how  she  looks  nowadays. 

"She  inclines  against  a  willow  trunk  by  her 
cottage.  Were  you  ever  acquainted  with  the 
great  repose  of  a  poetess  ?  Her  eyes  flash  in 
divine  sarcasm.  She  will  shoot  them  down  to 
the  mortal  domain  (she  lives  on  the  mountain), 
while  she  murmurs  in  tragical  accents  :  '  I  pity 
you,  ant-mortals  ! ' 

"  Isn't  she  shocking? 

"  Oscar,  I  have  withdrawn  to  the  Heights, 
and  am  prying  into  the  Incomprehensible  of 
Nature  with  Mr.  Heine. 

"  He  is  unique. 

"  I  take  it  upon  me  to  say  that  he  is  a  great 
poet.  Because,  in  the  first  place,  he  never 
asked  me  yet,  '  Do  poems  pay  in  Japan  ? ' 


1 90  The  American  Diary 

"  It's  such  a  trying  work  for  an  old  man  like 
him  to  pose  as  a  poet  all  the  time. 

"  Poet  is  a  sensitive  creation.  He  fancies,  I 
think,  the  whole  world  is  staring  at  him.  Poor 
Poet !  He  keeps  up,  and  tries  to  be  pictu- 
resque as  he  can. 

"  I  am  grieved  to  state,  however,  that  his 
picturesqueness  frequently  drops  into  silli- 
ness. 

"  The  absurd  thing  is  that  even  my  uncle 
takes  a  part  in  his  farce. 

"  We  had  no  meat  to  bite  yesterday. 

"The  poet  had  no  shot  left  for  his  gun. 

"What  did  he  plan,  do  you  imagine  ? 

"  He  went  up  the  hill,  shouldering  his  pick. 
My  uncle  retainered  him  with  a  spade. 

" '  We  will  soon  bring  back  a  squirrel  which 
we  will  dig  out,  Miss  Morning  Glory,'  the  poet 
said. 

"  Could  you  ever  suppose,  Oscar,  that  any  an- 
imal except  an  invalid  (an  animal  who  has  four 
feet  at  that,  instead  of  two  like  my  venerable 
gentlemen)  could  permit  itself  to  be  so  slow  like 
them  ? 

"  I  laughed  till  my  side  ached. 

"  Funny  old  men  ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  1 9 1 

"  Every  sort  of  sweat  fell  from  their  brows 
when  they  dragged  their  fatigued  feet  home 
not  accompanied  by  even  one  inch  of  any  an- 
imal tail. 

"  '  I  have  never  heard  yet,  Mr.  Poet,  of  a 
squirrel  turned  to  turnip,'  I  gibed. 

"  I  dread  old  age,  because  it  makes  woman 
inquisitive,  and  man  silly.  Inquisitiveness  is 
tasteless  like  wax,  while  silliness  is  helpless, 
like  a  fish  on  the  sand. 

"  I  fear  you  are  silly  already,  when  you  say 
that  you  sat  up  late  looking  at  my  picture. 

"  Sat  up  late  ? 

"  What  will  you  do  if  your  mamma  thinks 
you  can't  sleep  from  hard  drink  when  you 
yawn  continually  at  the  table  ? 

"  Please,  don't  do  it  again  ! 

"  Step  to  your  bed  at  half-past  six  as  I 
do! 

"  Are  you  sure  that  my  picture  approved 
your  act  ? 

"  I  guess  it  shrugged  its  shoulders  from  con- 
tempt, the  delicious  moment  of  blushing  being 
passed. 

"If  my  picture  is  so  precious,  I  advise  you  to 
alter  it  to  ashes.  You  will  take  two  spoonfuls 


1 92  The  American  Diary 

of  the  ashes  every  morning.     I  am  sure,  then, 
your  soul  will  be  saved. 

"  O  my  darling,  I  love  you  ! 

"  I  am  your 

"LITTLE  JAP  GIRL 

"  P.  S. — This  letter  was  written  by  my  duck- 
quill.  My  new  invention,  you  know. 

"  My  handwriting  is  clumsy  enough,  I  sup- 
pose, to  sell  as  high  as  any  ancient  author's 
autograph. 

"  Sayonara ! " 

6th — O  poppy,  beloved  harbinger  of  Cal- 
ifornia spring  ! 

I  "  hung  on  the  honourable  eyes "  of  a 
poppy  by  my  door.  Its  quaking  cup  burnt 
in  love  (for  a  meadow-lark  perhaps). 

"  Let  me  feed  you,  my  new  friend  ! "  I  said, 
and  brought  out  a  cupful  of  water. 

I  moistened  it. 

A  golden  flake  of  the  sun-ray  came  down  to 
it.  It  smiled,  daintily  thanking  me  for  my 
humble  treat. 

I  stared  at  it,  slowly  fabricating  a  fable  of 
its  love  affair,  when  the  breeze  sent  me  a 
dreamy  song. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  193 

The  song  was  old-fashioned,  like  the  after- 
noon snore  of  a  water-wheel. 

I  plunged  into  the  song,  not  knowing  who 
was  the  singer. 

"  Ara,  ara,  Grandmamma's  song ! "  I  ex- 
claimed. 

She  is  the  aged  mother  of  our  poet.  She 
is  within  the  rim  of  ninety.  I  suspected  her 
of  having  discovered  the  "  Elixir  for  Preserv- 
ing Eternal  Girlhood."  You  cannot  help 
esteeming  her  a  philosopher  when  you  are 
told  that  she  has  visited  San  Francisco  only 
twice  in  ten  years.  I  have  no  bit  of  doubt 
that  she  would  die  if  you  were  to  rob  her  of 
the  sight  of  her  flower  garden  and  one  stout 
scrap-book  about  her  son's  poems.  They  work 
a  miracle.  What  a  mystery  is  human  life ! 

I  say  that  I'm  touched  by  superstition. 

I  have  read  of  a  villainous  fox  who  mas- 
querades in  the  shape  of  an  old  woman. 

My  wretched  fantasy  about  Mrs.  Heine 
passed,  when  I  heard  that  no  fox  resided  in 
the  hill. 

She  is  such  a  dear  grandma. 

She  has  no  hostile  grimace  against  age. 
She  welcomes  it.  Her  wrinkles  are  all  her 


194  The  American  Diary 

beauty.  Natural  ripening  in  age  is  but 
another  form  of  girlhood. 

She  is  happy  as  a  sparrow. 

(Sparrow  never  forgets,  it  is  said  in  Nippon, 
to  dance  in  its  hundredth  year.) 

She  hoes  round  her  garden.  Her  vanity  is 
to  make  her  table  rich  with  her  own  potatoes 
and  roses. 

She  lives  alone  by  herself  in  a  cottage  some 
hundred  steps  from  mine. 

Did  you  ever  taste  her  cooking  ? 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Heine  !  "  I  said. 

"  Come  in  !  " 

She  showed  herself,  extending  her  large 
hands.  They  were  damp.  I  thought  she  was 
employing  herself  in  washing. 

Is  there  any  sweeter  occupation  than  service 
to  an  old  lady  ? 

"  Let  me  help  you  ! " 

I  carried  out  a  bucket  to  a  spring  in  the 
backyard. 

I  brimmed  it  with  the  waters.  It  was  so 
weighty.  A  naughty  stone  bounced  under 
my  heel.  I  was  thrown  down  like  a  toy. 

Alas! 

My  bucket  was  upset  over  my  skirt. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  195 

I  had  made  myself  a  specimen  of  misery. 
"  O  grandma,  it's  raining  awfully  outside  ! " 
I  cried. 

7th — To-day  I  was  the  chef,  while  my  uncle 
was  second  cook. 

I  placed  a  heroic  iron  pot  over  the  camp- 
fire.  I  dropped  a  lump  of  beef  in,  and  after- 
ward the  mass  of  potatoes,  carrots,  and  onions. 
Mr.  Poet's  directions  were  that  they  should 
boil  for  two  hours. 

Mr.  Heine  intruded,  saying  that  he  would 
like  to  season  them  himself. 

"  Longfellow,  Lowell — they  all  loved  high 
seasoning  as  I,"  he  said,  snatching  a  pepper- 
box from  my  hand. 

He  kept  tapping  the  bottom  of  the  box, 
when  the  cover  fell  into  the  pot. 

Oya! 

The  red  pepper  garmented  the  whole  thing. 

"Go,  Mr.  Poet!  Why  don't  you  mind 
your  own  business  ?  You  are  butler  to-day." 
I  spoke  in  rough  sweetness,  and  drove  him 
away. 

He  began  to  place  a  linen  cloth  on  the 
table,  while  I  dipped  up  all  the  pepper.  He 


196  The  American  Diary 

picked  up  one  dozen  pebbles  to  weight  the 
tablecloth.  The  first  thing  he  put  on  the 
table  was  his  claret  bottle.  How  could  he 
lose  it  from  sight !  When  he  said  that  every- 
thing was  in  place,  he  had  forgotten  the  knives 
and  forks.  Dear  old  poet  ! 

We  sat  at  the  table  under  the  wild  rose 
bushes. 

Mr.  Heine  read  aloud  the  following  menu  : 

"  PERFUME  OF  OMAR'S  ROSE 
WATER  OF  JORDAN  RIVER 
MOTHER  LOVE  BROTH 
MEAT  OF  WISDOM 
POTATOES  OF  SIMPLICITY 
PASSION  CARROT 
ONION  OF  WIT 
DREAM  COFFEE. 

DESSERT 

TYPICAL    TOKIO   SMILE   OF    Miss     MORNING 
GLORY." 

My  grandmamma  was  our  guest. 

"  Mother,  you  talk  too  much  always.  Re- 
member, this  is  a  sacred  service.  Silence  helps 
your  digestion.  Eat  slowly,  think  something 
higher,  and  be  content !  "  Poet  said. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  197 

We  smelledthe  "Perfume  of  Omar's  Rose," 
and  wet  our  lips  with  the  "Water  of  Jordan 
River." 

The  broth  was  served. 

Everybody  choked  with  its  pungent  fire. 

Poor  Mrs.  Heine ! 

She  was  showering  her  tear-beans. 

"  This  is  perfectly  seasoned.  Send  up  your 
bowl  again,  ladies  and  gentlemen  ! " 

Mr.  Poet's  performance  was  beautifully 
buffoonish. 

We  finished  our  meat  and  vegetables. 

I  smiled  lightly,  and  said  :  "  Are  you  ready 
for  the  Tokio  smile  ?  " 

"Just  ten  minutes  yet,  my  dear!"  The 
poet  smoothed  such  a  lengthy  gray  beard. 

I  winked  to  Grandma.  We  looked  upon 
him  slyly. 

8th — The  poet  was  hoeing  in  his  vegetable 
garden. 

His  attire  was  theatrical. 

His  red  crape  sash  laxly  surrounding  his 
trousers  lacked,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  a  large 
Japanese  tobacco  bag.  The  cap  with  gay 
ribbons  was  like  one  of  Li  Hung  Chang's. 


198  The  American  Diary 

His  back  carried  a  bearskin,  inside  of  which 
some  slovenly  yellow  silk  flapped  down. 

How  tall  he  was  ! 

"  Please,  don't  dig  over  there,  Mr.  Heine, 
because  I  buried  my  poem  there,"  I  said. 

"  What  poem,  my  lady  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  poem  to  be  read  at  the  unveiling  of 
my  statue  of  the  Muse  on  your  mountain  top, 
which  may  occur  possibly  within  five  years. 
The  opening  lines  sound  thus : 

'  Victor  of  Life  and  Song, 
O  Muse  of  golden  grace  ! ' ' 

"  That's  great !  Why  did  you  bury  it  ?  " 
"  Don't  you  bury  your  poems  ?  The  best 
poems  are  those  not  published.  The  very 
best  are  those  not  written.  Dante  Gabriel 
Rosetti  buried  his  '  House  of  Life,'  because 
they  were  not  for  a  gaping  millionaire's  wife, 
but  only  for  his  own  little  wife.  But  his  great- 
ness was  ruined  when  he  dug  them  up  and 
sold  them.  Poor  poet  !  What  all  the  poets 
ought  to  do,  I  think,  is  to  bury  their  poems  in 
a  potato  garden.  What  a  shame  even  the 
poets  have  to  eat  once  in  a  while !  They 
should  wait  till  the  potatoes  grow,  and  then 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  199 

sell  them  in  a  vegetable  stand,  calling  '  Poeti- 
cal Potatoes  ! '  Do  you  sell  your  poems,  Mr. 
Heine  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Aren't  you  making  your  living  with  your 
fruits?" 

"  I  never  sell  them,  my  dear." 

"What  do  you  do?" 

"  I  give  them  to  needy  persons.  But  I  was 
obliged,  last  year,  to  hang  up  a  sign,  '  No 
Fruit  Lover  is  Wanted.'  I  told  an  Oakland 
minister  to  come  up  and  eat  some  plums.  He 
brought  his  wife  and  children,  even  his  grand- 
mother. They  shouldered  away  every  bit  of 
fruit  from  half  a  dozen  trees.  Next  day  so 
many  people  trampled  in  with  an  introduction 
from  the  minister." 

"  Such  a  minister !  I  see  no  use  to  have 
the  sign,  '  Fruit  Grower,'  if  you  don't  sell." 

"Well,  my  dear  lady,  God  will  be  merciful 
to  let  me  use  it  in  place  of  '  Poem  Manufac- 
turer!" 

My  uncle  announced  that  tea  was  boiled. 

We  left  the  garden. 

9th — The  fogs  held  possession  of  our  world, 
like  the  darkness  of  night. 


200  The  American  Diary 

Where  did  they  invade  from  ? 

Pacific  Ocean? 

Our  hillside  cottages  looked  like  a  tottering 
ship  having  no  hope  for  any  haven. 

Tremendous  sight ! 

I  planted  me  on  the  hilltop.  My  mind 
merged  in  Japanese  mythology.  I  felt  as  if  I 
were  the  first  goddess,  Izanagi,  standing  on  the 
"  Floating  Bridge  of  Heaven,"  before  the 
creation. 

The  divine  ghastliness  bit  my  little  soul. 

I  couldn't  stand  against  it.  I  crept  down 
like  a  mouse. 

The  poet  said  he  was  preparing  a  lecture. 
Its  title  was  "  Not  in  Books." 

He  in  his  bed — there  he  passes  every  fore- 
noon— was  reciting  his  song. 

The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword  : 
"  Sail  on  !  Sail !  Sail  on  !  And  on  !  " 

I  threw  a  bunch  of  roses  over  to  his  bed  as 
an  admirer  does  to  a  star. 
Then  I  clapped  my  hands. 
"  Pan,  pan  !  Pan,  pan  ! " 

loth — I  went  up  the  hill  to  gather  mush- 
rooms and  watercresses. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  201 

I  filled  a  huge  basket  with  them. 

I  carried  it  down  on  my  shoulder  in 
Chinese  laundry  style.  I  paused  every  twenty 
steps. 

I  slipped  within  the  gate  of  Mrs.  Heine's 
back  garden. 

"  Mush  —  rooms  !  Water  —  cresses  ! "  I 
called  boisterously. 

"  My  dear  girl ! "  Grandma  smiled  out  from 
her  door. 

"  Keep  your  hands  off,  please  !  They  are 
things  for  sale.  To-day  they  are  uncommonly 
cheap.  Will  you  buy  them  ? 

"  How  much  do  you  charge  ?" 

"  Two  thousand  words  of  the  story  about 
your  illustrious  son's  life." 

"  What  a  funny  vender  ! " 

"  Tell  me  something  about  him  !  I'm  ready 
to  leave  you  the  whole  business." 

"  Shall  I  narrate  to  you  how  he  started  to 
write  ?  " 

"How  interesting !  "     I  ejaculated. 

"  Let  me  see  your  things  first ! "  she  said, 
tugging  the  basket  nearer. 

"  My  dear  child,  they  aren't  watercresses, 
but  baby  weeds.  I  don't  consider  they  are 
legitimate  mushrooms,  either." 


202  The  American  Diary 

She  turned  upon  me  with  compassionate 
objection. 

"  Oya,  oya,  you  don't  say  so  ! "  I  exclaimed. 
"Then,  no  story,  Grandma?"  I  looked  up 
meekly. 

nth — We  had  sipped  our  supper  tea  some 
time  ago. 

A  band  from  the  bay  sent  up  irregularly  the 
melody  of  the  love  and  prowess  of  dear 
mariners. 

The  white  moon  rose. 

I  sat  alone  on  my  front  step,  and  watched 
tenderly  by  the  poppy. 

My  darling  Miss  Poppy  shook  herself 
prettily,  as  if  she  uttered  a  sweet  word  out  of 
her  heart.  I  imagined  every  sort  of  speech 
that  may  come  from  such  a  tiny  bit  of  flower. 

"  Sodah,  she  said  that  she  loved  me ! "  I 
murmured. 

I  made  a  little  letter. 

"Miss  POPPY  : 

"  I  love  you  too. 
"  Yours, 

"  MORNING  GLORY." 


of  a.  Japanese  Girl  203 

I  rolled  it  to  a  ball.     I  dropt  it  in  her  cup. 

The  moon  turned  gold.  The  evening  odour 
filled  the  air. 

Look! 

She  was  folding  her  cup,  pressing  my  missive 
to  her  breast.  There  was  no  question  that  she 
understood. 

Dearest  friend  ! 

Was  it  silly  that  I  cried  ? 


1 2th — The  poet  left  the  Heights  to  exchange 
his  MS.  for  a  gallon  of  whiskey. 

He  carried  a  demijohn,  which  was  as  apt  to 
him  as  a  baby  to  a  woman. 

I  volunteered  to  clean  his  holy  grotto. 

The  little  cottage  brought  me  a  thought  of 
one  Jap  sage  who  lived  by  choice  in  a  ten-foot 
square  mountain  hut.  The  venerable  Mr. 
Chomei  Kamo  wrote  his  immortal  ''  Ten-Foot 
Square  Record."  A  bureau,  a  bed,  and  one 
easy  chair — everything  in  the  poet's  abode 
inspires  repose — occupy  every  bit  of  space  in 
Mr.  Heine's  cottage.  The  wooden  roof  is 
sound  enough  against  a  storm.  A  fountain  is 
close  by  his  door.  Whenever  you  desire,  you 


204  The  American  Diary 

may  turn  its  screw  and  hear  the  soft  melody 
of  rain. 

That's  plenty.     What  else  do  you  covet  ? 

The  closetlessness  of  his  cottage  is  a  sym- 
bol of  his  secretlessness.  How  enviable  is  an 
open-hearted  gentleman  !  Woman  can  never 
tarry  a  day  in  a  house  without  a  closet. 

He  never  closes  his  door  through  the  year. 

A  piece  of  wire  is  added  to  his  entrance 
at  night.  He  would  say  that  that  will  keep 
out  the  tread  of  a  dog  and  a  newspaper  re- 
porter. 

Not  even  one  book. 

He  would  read  the  history  written  on  the 
brow  of  a  star,  he  will  say  if  I  ask  him  why. 

Every  side  was  patched  by  pictures  and  a 
medley  of  paper  clippings.  Is  there  anything 
sweeter  to  muse  upon  than  personal  knick- 
nacks  ? 

0  such  a  dust ! 

1  swept  it. 

But  I  thought  philosophically  afterward,  why 
should  people  be  so  fussy  with  the  dust,  when 
things  are  but  another  form  of  dust.  What  a 
far-away  smell  the  dust  had !  What  an 
ancient  colour ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  205 

I  observed  on  the  wall  an  odd  coat  and  boots 
that  dear  old  Santa  Claus  might  have  lost. 

"  Klondyke  costume  ! "  I  exclaimed. 

I  undressed  myself,  and  tried  them  on. 

When  I  was  ready  to  put  on  a  fur  cap,  Mrs. 
Heine  wandered  down,  calling  me. 

"  Morning  Glory  !     Morning  Glory  ! " 

I  trembled  in  deadly  fear. 

I  hid  me  promptly  by  the  bureau,  under  the 
bed.  I  shut  my  eyes,  praying  : 

"  Namu  Daijingu,  don't  let  her  find  me  !" 

1 3th — Last  midnight  (O  voicelessness  of  the 
hillside  yonaka ! )  I  woke  up.  The  moon 
peeped  into  my  sitting-room.  She  laid  a 
square  looking-glass  on  the  floor. 

I  abandoned  my  bed,  and  sat  by  the  glass. 

I  spread  on  it  the  letter  from  my  sweet- 
heart. 

I  read  it  over  and  over,  till  I  couldn't  read 
any  more,  the  moon  being  kidnapped  by  the 
cloud-highwayman. 

"  O  Oscar  !  " 

I  cried  in  the  darkness. 

I  could  not  slumber  all  the  night,  on  account 
of  my  thought  of  him. 


206  The  American  Diaiy 

A  letter  was  written  to  him  to-day. 
Nature  and  love  !     I    am  now  living  with 
them. 

1 4th — I  elaborated  a  nosegay. 

The  poet  and  uncle  dignified  themselves  in 
frock-coats. 

The  coming  of  the  coffin  was  slow. 

Mr.  Poet  had  proffered  his  own  graveyard 
to  let  an  unknown  poet  lodge  there.  "Is  it 
because  you  want  some  one  to  greet  you  when 
you  die  ?  "  I  said  in  laughter. 

I  seated  myself  by  a  creek. 

I  entered  involuntarily  into  the  riddle  of  Life 
and  Death. 

The  water  under  my  feet  rolled  down,  posi- 
tively not  knowing  why  nor  whence.  The 
wind  passed,  "willy-nilly  blowing."  I  won- 
dered whither  it  went.  Mr.  Omar  is  unques- 
tionably a  true  poet.  The  petals  of  a  rose 
before  me  fell. 

I  murmured  : 

"  Each  Morn  a  thousand  Roses  brings,  you  say  ; 
Yes,  but  where  leaves  the  Rose  of  Yesterday  ?" 

I  was  crying  in  sadness  when  the  coffin 
arrived. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  207 

Mr.  Heine  and  my  uncle  lifted  it  by  either 
edge.  The  neighbouring  farmers  and  two 
sardonically  cool  gentlemen  from  the  under- 
taker's aided  them.  The  jaw-fallen  papa  of 
the  dead  carried  all  the  posies. 

And  Miss  Morning  Glory  (who  is  the  belle 
of  Tokio)  shouldered  a  bench  for  the  purpose 
of  sustaining  the  coffin  when  they  were  tired. 

The  hill  is  precipitous. 

The  gentlemen  stopped  numberless  times, 
before  they  stationed  themselves  on  the  top. 

The  grave  was  hollowed  behind  Mr.  Poet's 
monument.  They  sank  the  coffin. 

What  a  tremor  of  silence  sharpened  the  air ! 
I  was  shaking. 

The  poor  papa  read  a  chapter  from  the 
Bible.  He  described  his  loving  son's  life,  in 
doleful  honourableness. 

"  There  are  a  thousand  flowers  in  Spring," — 
the  poet  spoke — "  whose  repute  is  not  exten- 
sively spoken,  like  that  of  the  rose  or  violet. 
Some  of  them  are  not  given  even  a  name. 
They  spend  their  smile  and  odour  into  the 
breeze,  and  die  without  any  repining.  They 
are  content,  because  they  are  true  to  God. 
So  a  poet's  life  should  be.  What  is  celebrity  ? 


208  The  American  Diary 

Keats  was  told  of  his  beautiful  graveyard,  and 
he  said :  '  I  have  already  seemed  to  feel  the 
flowers  growing  over  me.'  If  this  poet,  whom 
we  now  bury,  had  been  told  of  this  hill,  he 
might  have  said:  '  I  see  already  the  butterflies 
beaming  over  my  head.'  Spring  is  coming. 
The  poppies  and  buttercups  shall  dress  the 
hill." 

A  church-bell  chimed  from  the  valley. 

We  left  the  buried  to  his  solitude. 

My  uncle  and  I  sat  under  an  acacia  tree, 
silent  for  some  time. 

"Look,  Morning  Glory!"  he  said,  exhibit- 
ing a  silver  piece. 

"  Is  there  any  story  about  that  dollar  ?  " 

"  The  father  of  the  dead  paid  me  for  carry- 
ing the  coffin." 

"  Uncle,  did  you  accept  it?" 

"Yes." 

"  Such  a  funny  uncle  ! " 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  have  spoiled  all  your  nobility  for  only 
one  dollar." 

I  upturned  my  face,  afterward,  appealing  in 
gleeful  tone: 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  209 

"  O  Uncle,  you  ought  to  give  me  half  of  it. 
Fifty  cents  !  I  carried  the  bench,  you  know." 

1 5th — I  arose  at  the  first  whistling  of  a 
meadow-lark. 

Hearken  to  its  hailing  morning  voice  ! 

0  simple  bird  ! 

Its  so  various  moods  are  expressed  only  in 
its  eternally  changeless  syllables.  What  a 
magical  song  ! 

How  bungling  seemed  our  human  vocabu- 
laries ! 

1  trod  the  garden  in  bare  feet. 
Naked  feet,  sir  ! 

The  delicious  chilliness  of  the  ground  ani- 
mated me  rapturously.  Do  you  believe  me  if 
I  confess  that  I  knelt  and  kissed  it  ?  I  said 
that  I  would  not  mind  burying  my  nude  body 
for  a  few  hours.  Mother  earth  is  so  sweet. 

I  ran  up  the  hill,  humming  an  Oriental  ditty. 

The  air  was  relishable,  like  an  ice-cream  on 
a  summer  midnight. 

The  beautiful  sun  was  rising. 

I  clapped  my  palms  thrice,  reverently  bow- 
ing. 

Am  I  a  sun-worshipper? 


210  The  American  Diary 

Yes! 

I  cleansed  my  feet  in  the  water  of  the  creek 
when  I  returned  from  the  hill.  I  sat  me  on  a 
rock,  extending  my  bare  feet  in  the  sunlight. 
I  thought  that  towel-wiping  was  too  much  of 
a  modernism. 

"Uncle!  O  Uncle!"  I  called. 

"What  is  it,  Miss  Morning  Glory?" 

The  poet  jutted  out  from  a  bamboo  bush 
by  the  wooden  bridge  over  the  creek. 

"  Such  charming  feet  !  "  he  said. 

I  instantly  lowered  my  skirt,  blushing. 

He  was  carrying  a  spade  and  hoe.  He  said 
that  he  had  been  planting  flowers  about  the 
grave  of  our  friend,  ever  since  four  o'clock. 
"  To  make  it  beautiful  is  high  poetry,"  he 
philosophised. 

"  What  do  you  wish  with  Uncle,  my  child  ?  " 
he  continued. 

"  I  want  my  shoes." 

"  Let  me  have  the  honour  of  fetching  them 
for  you  ! "  he  said  in  amiably  dignified  docility. 

1 6th — The  poet  gave  me  five  feet  square, 
behind  the  Willow  Cottage,  for  my  potato 
garden. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  2  1  1 

I  slicked  a  stick  at  each  corner.  I  encircled 
it  with  my  crape  sash. 

The  note  hanging  on  it  read,  "  Graveyard 
of  Morning  Glory's  Poem." 

I  hired  uncle  for  ten  cents,  to  clear  off  every 
weed. 

I  raked. 

I  set  the  seeds. 

I  got  a  suspicious  coat  and  pants  from  a 
nook  in  the  unrespectable  barn.  It  was  for- 
tunate that  the  horse  —  who  may  also  be  a 
poet,  he  is  so  philosophically  thin,  —  didn't 
shout,  "Hoa,  clothes-thief!" 

I  put  them  on  the  limbs  of  an  acacia  tree. 

I  planted  it  on  my  graveyard  to  scare  away 
wild  intruders. 

It  is  holy  ground. 

I  wondered  when  the  potatoes  would  grow. 


—  Squirrel  ! 

What  admirable  eyes  ! 

He  projected  his  head  from  a  hole  by  my 
window.  He  withdrew  it  a  bit,  and  bent  it  to 
one  side,  as  if  he  were  solving  a  question  or 
two. 

Then  his  eyes  stabbed  my  face. 


212  The  American  Diary 

"  I'm  no  questionable  character,  Mr. 
Squirrel,"  I  said. 

He  hid  himself  altogether. 

I  amassed  some  crusts  of  bread  by  his  hole, 
and  watched  humbly  for  his  honourable  pres- 
ence. 

He  did  not  peep  out  at  all. 

The  bread  was  not  a  worthy  invitation.  I 
varied  it  with  a  fragment  of  ham. 

Mr.  Squirrel  wasn't  void-stomached. 

I  thought  he  needed  something  to  read.  I 
tore  a  poem  from  the  wall.  I  left  it  by  his  re- 
spectable cavern. 

Lo! 

His  head  sprouted  out  to  pull  it  in. 

"Aha,  even  the  squirrel  is  a  poetry  devotee, 
in  this  hill !  "  I  said  in  humourous  mood. 

1 8th- 
"  MOST  BELOVED  : 

"  Mamma  was  flogged  with  a  bamboo 
rod  some  hundred  times  when  she  was  a  girl, 
her  exchanging  of  a  word  with  a  boy  over  the 
fence  being  deemed  an  obscenity.  My  papa 
spent  his  lonely  days  in  a  room  with  Confu- 
cious  till  one  night  a  middleman  left  him  with 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  2 1 3 

my  mamma  as  with  a  dolly.  I  do  believe  they 
never  wrote  any  love  letter. 

"  What  would  they  say,  I  wonder,  if  they 
knew  that  their  daughter  had  taken  to  Love- 
Letter  Writing  as  a  profession  in  Amerikey  ? 

"  You  shouldn't  censure  my  penury  in  writ- 
ing, knowing  that  I  am  a  musume  from  such  a 
source. 

"  Oscar,  are  your  windows  clean  ? 

"  Every  window  of  my  Willow  Cottage  was 
washed  yesterday.  Is  there  anything  more 
happy  to  see  (your  beautiful  eyes  excepted) 
than  a  shiny  window  ?  I  pressed  my  cheek  to 
the  window  mirthfully,  when  Mr.  Poet  tried 
to  pinch  it  from  the  outside.  My  dearest,  if 
he  had  been  my  very  Mr.  Ellis ! 

"  I  made  a  discovery  while  I  was  trimming 
about  the  kitchen. 

"  Can  you  guess  what  it  was  ? 

"  '  Love-Letter  Writer  ! ' 

"'  Gift  from  Heaven!'  I  said,  trusting  it 
would  help  me  in  my  composition. 

"  I  lit  a  candle  last  night.  I  hid  it  behind  the 
cover  of  such  a  huge  bible  which  I  had  borrowed 
for  the  purpose.  I  was  heedful  of  two  old 
men  who  might  disturb  me,  mistaking  the 


214  The  American  Diary 

light  for  a  sign  that  something  had  happened. 
Poor  Mrs.  Heine  almost  cried,  she  was  so 
pleased  to  think  that  I  loved  the  Bible.  Do 
I  love  it  ?  Oho,  ho,  ho 

"  Bakabakashi,  how  sad  ! 

"  The  whole  bunch  of  letters  wasn't  fit  for  my 
taste  at  all,  at  all. 

"  I'm  sorry  that  I  used  up  two  candles  that 
were  all  we  had  in  this  hill. 

"  So,  my  darling,  my  letter  has  to  be  woven 
from  my  truest  heart. 

"  Good  morning,  my  sweet  lord  !  How  are 
you  ?  Have  you  breakfasted  ?  Did  you  eat 
a  beefsteak  ?  I  dislike  a  hearty  morning  eater. 
My  ideal  man  shouldn't  be  given  more  than  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  one  trembling  leaf  of  bacon. 

"  Mr.  Poet  kills  a  frog  every  morning.  He 
says  that  his  fancy  springs  like  a  pond  singer 
when  he  tastes  it.  I  should  say  that  his  idea 
bounds  too  far  in  his  case. 

"Do  you  eat  frog  ? 

"  I  beseech  you  not  to  incline  toward  it. 

"What  should  I  do  if  your  thought  ran  off 
from  me  ? 

"  Failure  of  my  life  !  Love  is  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  woman,  you  know. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  215 

"  Have  you  any  shirt  to  mend  ? 

"  I  have  been  fixing  the  poet's. 

"  Pray,  express  it  to  me  ! 

"  Should  you  ask  such  a  pleasure  of  any  other 
girl,  it  would  be  a  fatal  mistake  for  you.  Re- 
member, Oscar,  that  the  Japanese  girl  is  a 
mightily  jealous  thing  ! 

"  My  sweetheart,  I  dreamed  a  dream. 

"  You  were  a  dragonfly,  while  I  was  a  butter- 
fly. It  is  needless  to  say  that  we  loved.  One 
spring  day  we  floated  down  along  the  canyon 
from  a  mountain  a  thousand  miles  afar.  Our 
path  was  suddenly  barred  by  a  dense  bush.  We 
couldn't  attain  to  the  Garden  of  Life  without 
adventuring  in  it.  So,  then,  you  stole  in  from 
one  place,  I  from  another.  Alas !  We  got 
parted  forever. 

"  Isn't  that  a  terrible  indication  ? 

"  Do  you  know  any  spell  to  turn  it  good  ?  I 
am  awfully  agitated  by  it. 

"  Oh,  kiss  ! 

"  Kiss  me,  my  dear  ! 

"  I  have  to  ascertain  your  love  in  it. 
"  Your 

"  MORNING  GLORY  " 


216  The  American  Diary 

1 9th — A  little  "  chui  chui"  was  building  a 
nest  under  the  roof,  by  my  door. 

Dear  jovial  toiler ! 

I  must  help  him  in  some  way. 

I  unravelled  one  of  my  stockings,  hoping  it 
might  be  servicable  in  bettering  his  home. 

I  stood  me  on  a  chair,  raising  up  my  arms 
with  my  gift. 

The  poor  sparrow  was  scared.  He  cast  a 
gray  "  honourableness  "  on  my  hand. 

0  naughty  "chui  chui  !" 

He  winged  away,  twittering,  "chui,  chui, 
chui ! " 

2Oth — The  squirrel  by  my  window  shows  a 
great  fancy  for  me.  He  honoured  me  three 
times  already  this  morning.  He  bore  a  some- 
what scholarly  air.  A  retired  professor,  I 
reckon. 

Is  he  regular  with  his  diary  ? 

Possibly  he  is  idle  with  a  pen,  like  any  other 
professor. 

Let  me  scribble  for  him  to-day  ! 

My  one  bottle  of  ink  has  some  time  to  dry 
up  yet. 

1  will  name  it  "  The  Cave  Journal."     I  will 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  2 1 7 

leave  it  to  the  Professor  for  a  souvenir  upon 
my  sayonara  to  this  hill. 

A 

. 
Where  are  my  spectacles  ? 

B 

Upon  my  soul,  I  believe  that  some  mischief 
is  raging.  I  can  never  trust  even  the  poet 
abode.  Who  stole  my  two-cent  stamp  ? 

God  bless  you,  my  precious  daughter  at 
Sierra  Nevada  ! 

By  and  by  I  will  erect  my  private  telegraph 
between  us. 


The  idea  of  an  idiotic  spider  tying  his  net 
across  my  front  gate  ! 

How  ever  could  he  be  so  ambitious  as  even 
to  incline  to  arrest  me  ! 

He  may  very  likely  be  a  detective.  A  rail- 
road brigand  is  hiding  in  these  Heights,  I 
suppose. 

The  world  is  running  worse  every  day. 

How  shocking  ! 


218  The  American  Diaiy 

It  was  a  fundamental  error  of  God,  to  create 
that  adventuress  Eve.  The  offspring  of  a  crow 
can't  be  other  than  a  crow. 

Our  squirrel  history  is  not  blotted  by  any 
criminal.  I  feel  a  bit  conceited  in  speaking 
about  it.  How  can  I  help  it? 

The  trouble  with  God  is  that  he  was  awfully 
vain  to  express  his  own  ability  by  so  many 
useless  things. 

Rifle,  for  instance. 

My  poor  wife ! 

D 

To-day  is  the  anniversary  of  my  beloved. 
She  was  shot  by  one  two-legged  barbarian. 

I  appealed  to  the  police.  American  police 
are  rotten,  through  and  through.  The  mur- 
derer bribed  them,  I  fancy. 

I  found  my  wife,  but  she  was  only  a  skin. 

How  often  did  I  tell  her  that  she  was  risk- 
ing too  much  in  sporting  around  !  But  she 
didn't  mind  me,  insisting  that  sight-seeing  was 
a  better  education. 

I  carried  her  skin  into  my  home. 

I  cleansed  it,  and  altered  its  form  a  trifle, 


of  a.  Japanese  Girl  219 

because  it  was  a  lady's.     I  am  still  keeping  it 
for  church-wear. 

I  feel  dreadful,  thinking  of  her. 


A  butterfly  passed  by  my  cavern,  a  hundred 
times. 

Each  time  she  threw  me  a  vulgar  laugh. 

Her  face  was  thickly  powdered  in  yellow. 
Does  she  think  herself  charming  ?  I  should 
say  that  I  would  prefer  a  girl  in  tights  from  a 
saloon-stage  to  her  indecency. 

Such  a  flirt ! 

I  suppose  that  she  wanted  me  to  marry  her. 

No! 

Am  I  not  old  enough  to  avoid  running  into 
such  foolishness  ? 


Rainy  day  ! 

I  sat  in  a  memorial  corner  of  my  cave,  with 
an  unfinished  novel  of  my  wife's. 

I  do  judge  she  had  flashes  of  genius.  She 
was  so  deep,  like  the  sky.  I  never  suspected 
that  she  could  gracefully  have  beaten  George 
Eliot,  if  she  had  only  survived. 


220  The  American  Diary 

Poor  girl  ! 

One  tenderly  loved  by  God  passes  away 
young. 

I  have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  crying  unman- 
fully  nowadays. 

I  cannot  help  it,  can  I  ? 


One  thing  I  must  furnish  is  a  bathroom. 

Cleanliness  is  the  first  rule  of  heaven,  I  am 
told. 

I  went  to  the  lily  pond  to  take  a  gracious 
bath. 

0  such  water  gamins  !     Dirty-handed  frogs  ! 
How  could  I  dip  me  in  the  turbid  water? 
The    frogs   ought    to  go  to  a   reformatory 

school.     They  have  no  culture,  whatever. 

H 

Camera  hunters  are  thick  as  fogs. 
To-day  I  came  near  being  a  victim. 
No,  sir ! 

1  can't  permit  my  picture  to  be  seen  with 
those  of  cheap  matinee  idols.     I  must   keep 
some  dignity. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  221 

Americans  are  too  commercial  altogether. 
The  pictures  of  our  race  are  in  demand,  I 
imagine. 

I 

Beautiful  moon,  last  night ! 

I  filled  my  stomach  with  the  divine  water 
from  a  creek. 

My  face  waved  in  the  water.  I  flattered 
myself  that  I  was  a  pretty  handsome  gentle- 
man. 

I  sang  an  ancient  Chinese  song  : 

"  Come  'long,  to-morrow  moon, 
Carrying  a  harp  !  " 

J 

Stop  your  empty  noise,  meadow-larks  ! 

Silence  is  the  first  study  of  this  hill  and  the 
last,  don't  you  know  ? 

I  am  absorbed  in  my  grave  work,  "The 
Secret  of  the  World." 

K 

My  neighbouring  Jap  girl  is  rather  attract- 
ive, isn't  she? 


222  The  American  Diary 

I  heard  a  few  scratches  of  her  native  bub- 
bling. 

The  pagan  speech  is  not  so  bad  as  I  thought. 

L 

If  there  is  one  thing  I  cannot  endure,  it  is 
ignorance. 

What  is  the  state  of  your  roses,  old  boy  ? 

The  poet  Heine  is  utterly  alien  to  rose  cul- 
ture. Shall  I  order  "  How  to  Raise  Roses" 
from  a  London  publisher  ? 

M 

I  went  up  the  hill  to  pray  to  God.  The 
higher  the  nearer. 

When  I  came  back,  my  honourable  vestibule 
was  blocked,  I  found,  by  the  dirt.  The  poet 
was  ditching  close  by  my  residence. 

I  couldn't  blame  his  conduct,  however,  be- 
cause no  one  could  see  my  home.  I  don't 
hang  out  a  sign  like  a  quack  doctor. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  I  would  strike  into 
his  cottage,  and  snatch  the  best  poems  from 
his  drawer,  and  sell  them  with  my  name. 

"  I  must  secure  the  international  copyright," 
I  said. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  223 

But  I   couldn't    dare  it,   my  impulse  being 
thwarted. 

I  am  no  wicked  reporter,  don't  you  see  ? 
I  hid  me  in  his  historical  iron  pot  all  day. 

N 

Heine   was   posting   around  the   following 
card : 

No  Shooting. 

I  venture  to  say  that  he  is  the  only  one  civil- 
ised Two-Legged  in  the  whole  world. 

O 

Where  is  my  napkin  ? 

Chinese  laundry  isn't  punctual  in  delivery. 

P 

I   think  I   must  learn  how  to  swear  for  a 
pastime. 

Q 

My  fellow  brother  Mr. was  shot  this 

morning. 

The  paper  says  that  there  is  a  possibility  of 


224  The  American  Diary 

war  between  Russia  and  Japan.     A  preacher 

prophesies  the  disappearance  of  the  universe. 

Everything  is  precarious  in  the  extreme. 

1  will  not  poke  around  outside  during  the 
day.     I  will  loaf  in  the  poet's  orchard  under 
the  breezy  moonlight. 

Poetical  existence  is  just  enough.  I  will 
withdraw  me  to  the  sanctuary  of  the  Muses. 

R 
Heaven  be  with  my  soul !     Amen  ! 

S 
Good-bye,  my  dear  old  world  ! 

2  ist — A  Chinaman  passed  with  a  weighty 
load  of  washing  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Friend,  stop  a  minute  !  Take  a  glass 
with  me  before  you  go  !  " 

The  poet  rolled  out  with  a  claret  bottle. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  Chinee  in  love  ?  Did 
you  ever  see  one  smile  ? 

Mr.  Charley  smiled  a  serene  smile  of  the 
Flower  Kingdom  pattern. 

"  God  bless  the  Empress  Dowager  !  "  Mr. 
Poet  said.  Both  raised  their  wine. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  225 

"  The  load  is  too  heavy  for  you.  You  are 
killing  yourself.  I  can't  bear  to  see  it.  My 
friend,  obey  me  !  Let  me  help  you  !  Don't 
leave  till  I  come  back  ! " 

The  poet  hurried  for  his  questionable 
buggy  and  horse.  He  cracked  his  whip — he 
never  whips  the  horse,  but  he  carries  it  for 
fashion's  sake,  as  he  remarks  —  when  Mr. 
Charley  protested,  "  Me  oll-righ,  you  savvy  !  " 

The  Chinaman  was  dumbfounded,  for  the 
poet  was  unknown  to  him. 

Mr.  Heine  pushed  him  in. 

When  he  leaped  up,  he  noticed  his  horse  in 
tender  tone : 

"  Go  on,  baby  ! " 

"What  a  goody-goody!  His  act  never 
parts  from  poetry,  however,"  I  said. 

I  was  simply  dying  for  an  opportunity  to 
explode  my  good  heart,  when  I  invited  one 
tramp  to  my  Willow  Cottage. 

I  fed  him  with  one  dozen  eggs. 

I  emptied  out  all  my  change  for  him. 

"Don't  you  feel  cold,  lying  outdoors?"  I 
said. 

"Yes,  Miss!" 

"  Don't  you  need  an  overcoat  ?" 


226  The  American  Diary 

"Yes,  Miss!" 

When  Mr.  Tramp  left  me  with  an  over- 
coat in  his  hand,  looking  like  a  proud  Mayor 
of  Tokio,  my  uncle  was  coming  from  Mrs. 
Heine's. 

"  Uncle,  you  do  want  to  be  good  to  a  poor 
man,  don't  you  ?  You  have  made  yourself  a 
great  philanthropist  with  your  overcoat." 

"  What  have  you  done  ?" 

"  I  presented  it  to  a  tramp." 

"  Morning  Glory  !  " 

"  Never  mind,  Uncle  !  I  will  buy  a  swell 
coat  in  New  York.  You  have  some  more, 
haven't  you  ?  " 

"  It  cost  me  forty  yens  at  'Hama.  You 
really  are  a  foolish  girl,  Asagao  !  " 

(Asagao  is  my  humble  name  in  Japanese.) 

Then  I  kissed  his  hand  most  pathetically — 
in  fun  for  my  part,  of  course. 


22nd — My  superstitious  Mamma  i 
She  mailed  me  an  o  mikuji  from  the  holy 
box  of  the  Akiwa  god. 

The  number  written  on  the  slip  was  fifty- 
one.     The  divine  will  read  as  follows : 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  227 

"  Faith  in  the  Well-God  will  result  fortu- 
nately." 

Mamma  bade  me  make  my  prayer  long  (not 
mixing  it  with  any  laughter  whatever). 

I  wondered  whether  there  was  any  well 
around  here. 

I  explored.  I  came  across  one  (such  a 
doubtful  well)  by  an  apple  tree. 

I  hastened  to  my  cottage  to  cut  a  paper 
flag. 

The  poet  gave  me  one  cup  of  claret  for  the 
Well-God. 

I  sat  by  the  well. 

What  did  I  pray? 

I  pried  into  the  well  for  the  fin  of  a  fish. 
Well  without  a  funa  fish  isn't  holy  to  a  Jap 
mind. 

23rd — Uncle    left  the    Heights  for  Frisco. 

I  have  encountered  somewhere  one  picture, 
"  Stolen  Kiss,"  symbolising  sweetness. 

I  dare  say  the  sweetest  thing  in  the  world 
is  to  steal  into  a  gentleman's  room  and  over- 
turn his  things. 

The  gentleman  smell  is  provocative. 
My  uncle  ? 


228  The  American  Diary 

I  can  only  say  that  he  is  more  desirable 
than  an  old  woman.  Old  woman  is  sad  as  a 
dry  persimmon. 

I  stole  into  his  room. 

God  will  overlook  my  petty  crime — how 
lovely  to  be  scratched  by  guilt ! — in  consider- 
ation of  the  fact  that  a  Jap  girl  never  profanes. 

I  turned  his  pillow.  Pillow  is  a  fascination 
for  me  ever  since  I  have  read  of  a  poet  who 
hid  his  diary  under  it. 

Look  at  the  book,  "  A  Random  Note  !  " 

He  was  working  to  beat  me  with  his  journal, 
I  derided. 

I  sat  on  his  bed,  opening  it. 

"  How  original !  "   I  exclaimed. 

Uncle,  you  are  a  cynic,  aren't  you  ? 

Let  me  pick  a  few  pieces  from  his  pen ! 


"  Unfortunately  !  Japanese  are  accustomed 
from  babyhood  to  depend  on  another's  back. 
The  hereditary  fashion  of  nursing  the  baby  on 
the  back  has  thoroughly  taught  them  depen- 
dence. Independence  is  only  a  coat  of  arms 
to  distinguish  man  from  the  beasts — that  is 
all.  I  urge  that  Emerson's  essays  be  adopted 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  229 

in  the  Nippon  schools.  His  'Self-reliance" 
should  be  the  first  of  all. 

"  Most  unhappily !  I  have  observed  the 
Japanese  fad  in  America  for  years,  and  it  has 
not  yet  reached  its  culmination.  Each  month 
the  books  on  Japan  are  placed  before  the  pub- 
lic. It  is  verily  sad  even  to  cut  their  edges. 
(The  practical  Americans  prove  themselves 
unpractical  in  leaving  the  leaves  of  books 
uncut.)  I  say  that  our  Japan  is  entitled 
to  regard  for  worthier  things  than  geisha  girls 
or  a  fashion  in  bowing.  We  should  decline 
your  love,  Americans,  if  it  is  rooted  merely  in 
your  fancy  for  our  paper  lanterns.  I  have 
frequently  come  to  conclude  that  Americans 
are  eminently  the  freakish  nation.  I  feel  not 
only  occasionally  that  they  lack  the  reasoning 
power.  I  do  not  assume  the  phenomena  of 
the  yellow  journals  as  my  proof. 

"  A  year  or  two  ago,  one  Japanese  theatri- 
cal troup  roamed.  They  are  not  catalogued 
at  home  as  actors.  They  chose  to  skip  on  the 
stage,  simply  because  a  bit  more  money  is  in 
it  than  in  the  calling  of  '  lantern-carrying  for 
politicians.'  Any  wild  animal  can  skip.  I  am 
now  confronted  with  the  question  whether 


230  The  American  Diary 

American  generosity  is  not  without  sense. 
They  piled  up  their  money  for  them.  Even 
the  first-class  critics  struggled  to  find  out  some- 
thing from  such  poor  art.  I  am  bound  to  be 
thankful,  however,  for  the  Americans  saved 
these  poor  players  from  bankruptcy  in  Japan. 
It  reminds  me  of  a  story.  Our  Nippon  gov- 
ernment many  years  ago  appointed  a  certain 
loafing  sailor  as  an  English  intsructor,  giving 
him  a  monthly  pay  of  three  hundred  dollars. 
Sailor  with  an  anchor-tatoo  on  his  hand ! 
Three  hundred  dollars  are  no  small  coin  in 
Japan.  Our  sailor  professor  said,  I  am  told, 
that  he  had  not  heard  of  any  Milton.  Ignor- 
ance can  easily  be  a  philanthropist,  if  it  can  be 
anything. 

"  Japanese  love  Nature  ?  They  do.  But 
how  sad  to  glance  at  Japanese  garden  !  It 
is  painful  to  notice  the  dwarf  trees.  Japs  never 
permit  one  thing  to  grow  naturally.  Country 
of  deformity !  America,  most  natural,  most 
manly  nation  ! " 

24th — My  uncle  didn't    come  back  yester- 
day.    Mr.    Poet    condescended  to  the    town. 
I  am  alone. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  231 

I  spent  the  entire  forenoon  with  Grandma, 
peeling  potatoes,  strewing  sweet  pea  seeds  on 
the  ground. 

I  ascended  the  hill  with  the  root  of  a  white 
rose — believing  in  the  Nippon  idea  that  blos- 
soms for  the  dead  should  be  white — and  set  it 
by  the  grave. 

Then  I  stole  into  the  canyon. 

I  amassed  the  dead  leaves  of  redwood  by 
the  brook  for  a  camp  fire. 

The  smoke  rose  like  a  soul  unto  heaven. 

I  watched  its  beautiful  confusion. 

When  I  left,  a  snake  obstructed  my  path, 
flashing  its  needle  of  a  tongue. 

Snake,  one  of  my  greatest  foes !  (The 
others  being  cheese  and  mathematics.) 

I  turned  pale. 

But  I  bravely  faced  it,  hoping  that  it  would 
speak  a  word  or  two,  as  one  did  to  Eve.  I 
placed  my  eyes  on  it,  though  in  fear.  Perhaps 
it  wasn't  as  intelligent  as  the  one  in  the  garden 
of  Eden.  Maybe  it  thought  it  nothing  but  a 
waste  of  time  to  address  a  Jap  poorly  stored 
in  English.  It  crept  away. 

I  ran  down  the  hill. 

A  storm  of  laughter  struck  me  from  within 


232  The  American  Diary 

when  I  came  to  my  Willow  Cottage.  I  ex- 
amined it  from  the  window.  Half  a  dozen 
young  ladies  were  biting  pie.  (Pie  !  Rustic 
pastry  I  ever  so  hate  !) 

"  Picnic  !  "  I  murmured. 

My  blood  gushed  up.  I  was  on  the  verge 
of  denouncing  their  irruption.  The  cottage 
belongs  to  any  one,  I  said  in  my  afterthought, 
as  it  does  to  me. 

I  slipped  away. 

I  found  myself  in  the  plum  orchard  with  a 
hoe. 

I  began  to  root  the  weeds.  I  waited  silently 
for  their,  departure. 

25th — The  spring  hills  were  coquetting  like 
a  tea-house  maiden,  singing  : 

"The  air  is  lovely  like  wine  ; 
Come,  Lord  !     Come,  Lord  !  " 

The  curtain  for  the  spring  comedy  has  not 
yet  risen. 

Already  the  picnic  band  invades. 

To-day  I  will  make  myself  mistress  of  a 
hillside  coffee-house. 

The  poet — the  eternally  sweet  poet — 
hastened  to  borrow  a  tent  from  a  neighbour. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  233 

He  set  it  on  the  greenest  spot  of  grass  be- 
fore my  cottage.  I  must  excuse  his  conceit, 
he  entreated,  in  showing  his  skill  by  baking  a 
cake  for  me. 

"  Accept  my  hundred  arigatos  ! " 

I  bowed  demonstratively. 

I  pasted  a  paper — such  a  bashful  brown 
piece  from  a  butcher's  table — with  the  sign  of 

"BISHOPS'   REST." 

The  poet  tacked  "  Ten  Cents  for  Coffee 
and  Cake  "  on  the  fence  by  the  tent. 

The  cups  (what  a  shame  that  their  arms 
were  all  off)  were  rinsed,  when  he  showed  me 
an  imperial  poundcake,  declaring  it  his  own 
manufacture. 

At  three  o'clock  I  was  fully  prepared  for  an 
honorable  guest. 

The  coffee  on  the  oil-stove  was  surging,  when 
two  parties  went  by,  not  spending  even  one 
look  at  my  sign. 

"Times  are  awfully  hard,  I  think.  People 
have  not  luxury  enough  to  spare  even  a  dime," 
I  murmured  sadly. 

I  said  that  I  would  have  no  business,  if  I 
didn't  make  the  next  party  my  victim. 


234  The  American  Diaiy 

I  appeared  before  the  tent,  when  a  few 
girls — who  were  born  for  laughing,  but  not 
for  thinking — came  close  by. 

"  Will  you  rest  and  taste  the  cake  that  the 
poet  made,  ladies  ?"  I  said. 

"  That's  nice,"  they  said,  rolling  into  the 
tent. 

I  served  them  with  coffee  and  cake. 

"Is  this  surely  the  poet's  cake?  It  looks 
like  baker's  cake,"  one  girl  said. 

"  Mr.  Poet  assured  me  it  was  of  his  own 
making,"  I  replied  in  cool  reserve. 

After  they  left,  I  scrutinised  the  cake. 
Oya  !  A  little  bakery  mark  was  seen. 

"  Mighty  liar  ! "  I  grumbled. 

Abrupt  clouds  clouded  the  sun.  The  winds 
scolded  bitterly.  I  decided  there  was  no 
business  remaining. 

I  called  Mr.  Heine  and  uncle  into  the  Bis- 
hops' Rest. 

"Your  cake  was  fine,  Mr.  Poet." 

"  I  know  it,  Miss  Morning  Glory.  I'm  a 
pretty  good  cook,  you  see.  I  cooked  once  in 
a  Sierra  camp  for  fifty  miners.  I  was  paid 
twenty  dollars  a  week.  Alas !  It  was  the 
biggest  money  I  ever  earned." 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  235 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Heine,  the  bakery  sent  a 
bill  for  you." 

I  placed  before  him  a  slip  that  I  had  pre- 
pared for  the  purpose. 

"Ha!  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

His  open  laughter  was  as  from  a  simple 
Faun. 

I  noticed,  afterward,  a  black  mass  heaped  in 
a  ditch.  The  whole  situation  grew  plain  to 
me.  He  couldn't  bake,  but  only  burn,  in  the 
oven,  and  had  despatched  his  neighbour  for  the 
cake. 

Dear  Poet  ! 

26th — We  pressed  the  poet  to  receive  some 
money  as  just  a  sign  of  our  gratitude. 

Mr.  Heine  despised  our  thought. 

Honourable  gentleman ! 

I  found  a  tin  box.  I  put  the  money  in — 
ask  me  not  how  much  ! 

I  dug  a  hole  by  the  willow  tree  beside  the 
lily  pond,  and  buried  the  money  box.  I  tum- 
bled a  stone  over  it  to  mark  it. 

"  I'll  write  him  about  it  from  New  York. 
See,  Uncle  !  Isn't  it  unique?"  I  said. 

Uncle  wasn't  enthusiastic  in  approving  my 


236  The  American  Diary 

idea.      He  couldn't  check  me,  however,  as  the 
money  was  mine. 

He  said  he  would  order  an  elegant  vase 
from  Tokio. 

2/th — I  intended  to  keep  a  sweet  fashion  of 
old  Japan  in  presenting  a  poem  at  my  sayonara. 

We  will  take  leave  to-morrow. 

O  gracious  graceful  poet  abode  ! 

My  farewell  poem  in  seventeen  syllable  form 
is  as  follows : 

"  Sayonara  no 
Ureiya  nokore 
Mizu  no  neni !  " 

"Remain,  oh,  remain, 
My  grief  of  sayonara, 
There  in  water  sound  !  " 

28th — Mrs.  Heine  kissed  me. 

Dear  old  Grandma ! 

"  Do  you  know  what  this  is,  Miss  Morning 
Glory  ?"  the  poet  said,  plucking  a  leaf  from  a 
tree  by  his  door. 

"Fig-leaf!     Isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  my  child  !  It  is  a  fig-leaf.  Do  you 
know  the  fig  tree?  It  is  the  shyest  tree  in  the 
world.  Classical  tree,  indeed!  It  has  no 


MY  SAYONARA  POEM  IN  JAPANESE  AUTOGRAPH. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  237 

blossom,  being  so  modest  of  display,  but  it 
has  the  fruits.  Remember,  my  young  lady, 
its  teaching  of  '  Modesty !  Modesty  ! ' ' 

"  Sayonara,  Mr.  Poet  !  " 

"  One  minute,  Uncle  !  "  I  said. 

I  ran  into  the  Willow  Cottage  to  get  a  cup- 
ful of  water.  I  watered  my  friend  Miss  Poppy 
with  love. 

Bye-bye,  little  girl ! 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  March  ist 

Civilisation  again  ! 

The  first  thing  was  to  buy  a  cake  of  the 
best  soap. 

Because  my  hands  had  perfected  their  trans- 
formation into  worthless  leather  while  I  dwelt 
on  the  hill. 

What  kind  of  soap  did  I  use,  do  you  sup- 
pose ? 

Laundry  soap. 

2nd — Delightful  Ada ! 

We  drove  to  the  Cliff  House,  Ada  to  laugh 
at  the  stupid  song  of  the  seals,  I  to  say  my 
adieu. 

Good-bye,  Pacific  Ocean  ! 


238  The  American  Diary 

We  cried  in  hugging. 

We  shall  not  see  each  other  for  some  time, 
— maybe  never  again ! 
Ada! 

0  Ada  San  ! 

3rd — This  afternoon  ! 
Eastward,  ho,  ho  ! 

OVERLAND  TRAIN,  March  4th 
"  Madame   Butterfly  "  lay  by  me,  appealing 
to  be  read. 

"  No,  iya,  I'll  never  open  !  I  erred  in  buy- 
ing you,"  I  said. 

1  dislike  that  "Madame."     It  sounds  inde- 
cent ever  since  the  "gentleman"  Loti  spoiled 
it  with  his  "  Madame  Chrysantheme." 

The  honourable  author  of  "  Madame  But- 
terfly" is  Mr.  Wrong.  (Do  you  know  that 
Japanese  have  no  boundary  between  L  and 
R?)  Undoubtedly,  he  is  qualified  to  be  a 
Wrong. 

Authorship  is  nothing  at  all,  nowadays, 
since  authors  are  thick  as  Chinese  laundries. 
Well,  still,  it  can  be  honourable,  if  it  is  honour- 
able. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  239 

Japanese  fiction  penned  by  the  tojin  ! 

It  is  a  completely  sad  affair.  I  wonder  why 
the  author  (God  bless  him)  didn't  fit  himself 
for  brooming  the  streets  instead  of  scrawl- 
ing. 

The  characters  in  his  book — I  am  grateful  I 
see  no  lady  writer  of  Japanese  novels  yet — re- 
mind me  of  the  "  devils  of  mixture  "  swarming 
in  Yokohama  or  Kobe,  whose  Jap  mother  was 
a  professional  "hell."  It  is  lamentable  to  set 
the  verdict  on  them  that  they  have  inherited 
the  art  of  framing  lies  from  their  mamma. 

Do  I  vex  you,  gentleman,  when  I  say  that 
your  Japanese  type  could  only  be  an  unprin- 
cipled half-caste  ? 

Your  Nippon  character  eyed  in  blue,  and 
hairy-skinned  always.  Isn't  it  absurd  when  it 
puts  a  'Merican  shoe  on  one  foot  and  a  wooden 
clog  on  the  other  ? 

And  if  you  insist  on  registering  it  as  a  Jap, 
I  shall  merely  laugh  loudly. 

One  heroine  I  have  read  of  placed  a  light 
summer  haori  over  her  heavily  padded  mid- 
winter clothes. 

Your  Oriental  novel,  let  me  be  courageous 
enough  to  say,  is  a  farce  at  its  best. 


240  The  American  Diaiy 

Oh,  just  wait,  my  sweet  Americans !  A 
genuine  one  will  soon  be  offered  to  you  by 
Morning  Glory. 

I  stepped  out  to  the  platform,  and  threw 
out  "  Madame  Butterfly." 

Poor  "Madame  !" 

I  trust  in  the  mountain  lions  of  high  Ne- 
vada to  cherish  her  lovingly. 


5*- 

"  Matsuba  Sama,  the  following  letter  creeps 
'under  your  honourable  table.' 

"  How  is  yourself  ? 

"  I  imagine  that  the  breeze  fills  your  bower 
with  the  odour  of  ume  flowers.  I  am  definite 
in  saying  that  the  Japanese  ume  is  of  differ- 
ent origin  from  the  California  plum  tree,  which 
has  no  expression  in  divine  fragrance  as  I  am 
told.  I  see  your  indolent  face  in  the  air, 
awaiting  poetical  inspiration  on  your  bamboo 
piazza  where  the  ume  petals  are  beautifully 
blotched. 

"There  are  several  months  yet  till  we  shall 
quarrel  face-to-face  over  the  superiority  of 
English  or  Oriental  literature. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  241 

"Miss  Pine  Leaf,  I — or  rather  we — have 
said  farewell  to  Frisco. 

"  It  was  sad  that  I  never  saw  any  battleship 
(excepting  one  shamefaced  gunboat)  in  the 
bay  of  the  Golden  Gate.  A  bay  without 
battleship  is  like  a  door  without  a  lock. 

"Can  you  fancy  any  Japanese  city  without 
soldiers  ? 

"American  soldier? 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  have  met  no  sol- 
dier in  my  four  months  at  the  Pacific. 

"  I  presume  that  the  practical  Meriken  jins 
can't  bear  to  see  such  a  useless  ornamentation. 
Yes  !  Soldiers  are  degenerating,  in  my  opin- 
ion, to  the  rank  of  a  fireplace  on  a  hot  sum- 
mer day.  How  stimulating,  however,  was  the 
sound  of  the  fearless  hoofs  of  a  cavalier  ! 
When  the  sabres  of  a  regiment  flashed  in  the 
sunlight,  I  could  never  keep  from  fluttering 
my  paper  handkerchief. 

"  I  shall  not  excite  myself  in  such  a  joy  in 
Amerikey. 

"  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  one  colonel  at 
Mrs.  Willis'.  He  is  a  jolly  business  man. 
Just  think  of  a  colonel  plus  merchant  !  Is  it 
possible?  He  changes  his  white  shirt  every 


242  Tke  American  Diary 

morning,  and  shines  his  shoes  twice  a  day.  I 
should  say  that  he  will  carry  a  sheet  and  opera 
hat,  and  leave  his  gun  behind,  whenever  he  is 
summoned  to  a  battle-field.  Possibly  he  has 
hidden  his  colonelship  in  his  trunk. 

"  I  found  afterward  that  every  old  gentleman 
is  a  colonel  or  judge. 

"  Everything  in  California  is  made  for  just  a 
woman. 

"  California  gentleman  isn't  privileged  to 
raise  one  question  against  a  lady.  He  is  pro- 
vided with  all  sorts  of  exclamations  to  please 
the  woman.  If  he  should  ever  miss  one  din- 
ner with  his  wife,  he  would  be  divorced  in 
court  on  the  morrow. 

"  Uncle  says  that  the  Eastern  gents  are  not 
so  devoted  to  the  lady. 

"  If  it  be  true  ! 

"  Am  I  now  entering  the  city  of  Man  ? 

"  How  sad ! 

"  Have  you  any  experience  of  writing  by  the 
car-window  ? 

"  I  feel  a  strange  delight  in  scanning  my  ro- 
mantically tremulous  handwriting.  A  certain 
famous  Jap  penman  takes  wine  before  he  be- 
gins, for  the  sake  of  putting  his  mind  in  a  fine 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  243 

frenzy,  as  you  know.  The  shaking  of  the  car 
produces  in  me  the  same  effect.  Isn't  this  let- 
ter great  enough  to  be  honoured  on  your  toko- 
nama  ? 

"  Can  you  ever  imagine  how  vast  Amerikey 
is? 

"  Yesterday  our  car  ran  all  day  long,  over  the 
mountains  and  prairies,  seeing  only  a  few  huts. 

"  O  such  a  snowstorm  in  the  evening  ! 

"  The  train  rushed  like  a  maddened  dragon. 
It  was  verily  an  astonishingly  ghastly  specta- 
cle as  any  human  thought  could  ever  picture. 
I  thrilled  with  a  feeling  of  tragic  ecstasy,  which 
is  the  highest  emotion. 

"  Can  you  recollect  that  you  and  I  once 
stood  under  the  darkest  rains  without  an 
umbrella,  and  laughed  hysterically  ? 

"  I  love  shocking  emotion. 

"  Since  I  was  touched  by  the  continental  air, 
I  measure  my  lungs  dilating  two  inches  big- 
ger. How  sorry  I  shall  be  for  you  when  I  re- 
turn !  You  are  so  tiny  !  I  expect  myself  to 
be  five  inches  higher  within  the  next  few 
months. 

"  Amerikey  is  the  country  where  everything 
grows,  don't  you  know  ? 


244  The  American  Diary 

"Even  the  stars  look  a  deal  larger  than  in 
Japan. 

"  Looking  back  at  the  Rocky  Mountains, 

"  Yours, 

"  ASAGAO  " 

6th — The  rocking  of  the  train  makes  us 
babies  in  the  cradle. 

The  car  is  a  modern  opium  resort,  where  we 
sleep  and  sleep. 

I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  all  turned  into 
nodding  Rip  Van  Winkles. 

To-day  I   had  a  sleeping  contest  with  uncle. 

I  was  defeated. 

CHICAGO,  7th 

Chicago  water  is  a  perfect  horror. 

Gomenyo  !     That's  no  way  to  begin,  is  it  ? 

I  never  waver  in  saying  that  California  girls 
borrow  their  fairness  from  their  water. 

There  is  no  question  in  my  mind  why  the 
Chicago  women — certain  hundreds  I  saw,  if 
you  please — are  barren  in  their  complexion. 

"  O  Uncle,  how  many  days  have  we  to  tarry 
here  ?  "  I  asked,  within  an  hour  after  we  had 
set  foot  in  this  city. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  245 

I  grieve  over  my  contact  with  such  a  city. 
It  is  no  place  for  a  lady.  (Is  here  any  lady?) 
It  is  just  the  place  for  a  man. 

No  show  marked  "  Only  for  a  Man"  is  re- 
spectable, I  dare  say. 

Are  Chicago  men  "  gentlemen  ?  " 

They  are  not  sensitive  about  their  hats  in 
the  hotel  elevator.  The  laundry  work  isn't 
superb,  I  judge,  as  not  every  one's  shirt  is 
snowy  as  a  San  Franciscan's.  I  cannot 
blame  their  black  fingernails,  as  they  live  in 
smoke. 

Even  the  Frisco  smoke  nindered  my  breath 
at  my  opening  moment  in  Amerikey.  I  should 
have  died,  if  it  had  been  Chicago. 

Bodily  cleanliness  is  the  first  chapter  in  the 
whitening  of  the  soul.  How  many  mortals  are 
there  here  with  a  clear  soul  ? 

"  Chicago  is  Mr.  Nobody  without  the  smoke, 
like  Japan  without  a  fan.  The  prosperity  of  a 
modern  city  is  measured  by  the  bulk  of  its 
smoke,  Morning  Glory.  But  I  don't  approve 
of  their  using  a  cheap  coal.  Health  has  to  be 
guarded,"  my  uncle  said. 

A  driver  carried  us  from  the  station  as  if  we 
were  pigs. 


246  The  American  Diary 

Mind  you,  this  is  Chicago  illustrious  for  its 
hams. 

I  barred  my  ears  with  my  hands  in  the  car- 
riage. The  thunderous  noise  menaced  me  so. 

Do  roses  blossom  well  in  the  turbulent  air? 

I  have  no  doubt  that  Chicago  has  no  poet. 

"  Cook  County  fosters  three  thousand  poets, 
one  paper  says,  my  young  woman,"  Uncle  said 
in  laughter. 

"  Don't  say  so  ! " 

'As  soon  as  I  had  established  myself  in  the 
hotel,  I  inscribed — with  the  longest  apologeti- 
cal  ojigi  to  Mr.  Shelley — as  follows  : 

"  Hell  is  a  city  much  like  Chicago, 
A  populous  and  a  smoky  city." 

8th — How  sad  I  felt,  not  to  be  greeted  by 
even  one  star  from  my  hotel  window  last 
night  ! 

I  was  disgusted  with  the  poor  taste  of  the 
coffee.  Such  a  first-class  hotel !  Coffee 
and  maxim,  I  have  said,  should  be  of  the 
very  best.  Commonplace  words  with  the 
golden  heading  of  Maxim  would  be  as  cheap 
as  a  negress  with  white  powder.  I  would 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  247 

choose  even  a  bread  pudding  rather  than  a 
suspicious  cup  of  coffee. 

Uncle  failed  to  secure  a  box  of  cigarettes. 

The  most  delicate  shape  for  smoking  is  the 
slender  stalk  of  a  cigarette.  The  cigar  ever 
so  much  impresses  me  as  barbarous.  Chi- 
cagoans  might  say  it  was  the  only  manly 
smoke. 

Truly ! 

Chicago  is  the  City  of  Man  (whatever  that 
means). 

I'm  glad  that  the  young  gentlemen  with 
genteel  canes  under  their  arms  don't  open  any 
cigar  stand  conference  here.  Such  an  abom- 
ination in  Frisco  ! 

No  drones,  whatever. 

My  uncle  was  going  out  sight-seeing  with 
me  in  a  silk  hat. 

I  objected  to  it. 

Plug  hat  doesn't  suit  informal  Chicago. 

He  changed  his  frock-coat  for  a  sack-coat. 

"  Now,  Uncle,  you  look  more  like  a  Chicago 
gentleman  !  "  I  said. 

Yes,  this  is  a  plain  sack-coat  city. 

He  was  fussing  with  a  handkerchief.  I  said, 
laughing :  "  Never  mind,  Uncle  !  I  am  sure 


248  The  American  Diary 

the  men  don't  carry  it  here,  since  the  women 
never  carry  a  purse  in  their  hand." 

Isn't  it  awful  that  one  (even  a  stranger) 
ought  to  know  everything  in  Chicago  ?  A 
slight  question  to  the  street  people  would  be 
condemned  as  a  nuisance. 

Even  the  policeman  shows  no  chivalry. 

I  was  sorry  that  the  colour  of  his  suit  was 
bitterly  faded. 

Isn't  Chicago  rich  enough  to  furnish  a  new 
one? 

I  suppose  many  dogs  must  be  hanging  around 
here,  because  the  policeman  arms  himself  with 
a  piece  of  wood  for  chasing  them  off. 

I  should  like  to  know  if  there  is  any  blacker 
house  than  the  City  Hall. 

It  will  be  a  matter  of  a  short  time  before  the 
Chicago  River  turns  to  ink. 

Then  we  went  to  observe  the  Lake  of 
Michigan  from  Lincoln  Park. 

I  scoffed  at  my  absurdity  in  being  ready 
with  the  first  line  for  my  poem  on  the  lake. 
If  you  knew  that  "  O  minstrel  of  Heaven  and 
Truth!"  was  the  beginning,  you  would  laugh 
surely.  The  lake  wasn't  a  huge  singer  like 
the  Pacific  Ocean,  at  all. 


Drawn  In1  Gen/fro  JYA> 

"  UNCLK,  PLEASE  corxr   HOW  MANY  STORIES  IN  THAT  IH'ILDIXO." 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  249 

44  Uncle,  please,  count  how  many  stories  in 
that  building  ! "  I  begged. 

Chicago  structures  "crush  my  little  liver" 
completely.  Did  I  ever  dream  that  I  would 
eye  such  pillars  of  the  sky  in  my  life  ? 

When  I  returned  to  my  hotel,  I  declared 
that  I  would  not  open  my  trunk,  because  my 
everyday  dress  was  good  enough  for  Chicago. 

I  regret  to  say  that  the  gentlemen  are  so 
homely. 

9th — How  dear  is  the  green  crispy  paper 
money. 

What  a  historical  look  ! 

It  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were  at  home. 

I  hated  ever  so  much  the  gold  coin  in 
California.  Its  threateningly  mercantile  as- 
pect made  me  shudder  as  at  a  speculator  of 
Kakigara  Cho  of  Tokio. 

If  I  like  Chicago  it  must  be  on  account  of 
its  soiled  paper  money. 

I  will  exchange  all  my  gold  to  it. 

I  went  to  one  store  for  a  short  skirt  like 
that  Chicago  woman  wears. 

It  may  be  a  change,  though  shortness  in 
hair  and  dress  is  my  aversion.  It  may  be  ad- 


250  The  American  Diary 

vantageous  in  showing  one's  shoes,  though 
eternal  exhibition  isn't  tasty. 

It  would  be  an  accurate  account  of  my  rea- 
son for  buying  to  say  that  I  singularly  wished 
to  use  up  a  few  jumbles  of  money. 

I  dulled  myself  reading  the  advertising  bills 
through  my  hotel  window. 

There's  no  block  free  from  them. 

'Vertisement ! 

Isn't  it  horrid  ? 

I  laughed,  wondering  why  those  enterpris- 
ing Menken  jins  don't  employ  the  extensive 
backs  of  prizefighters  in  the  ring. 

Uncle  and  I  went  to  see  the  Injuns  dance. 

How  fantastically  they  sang  ! 

There  was  a  Japanese  tea-house. 

It  is  no  "  tea-house  "  at  all.  It  was  the  sad- 
dest thing  I  ever  saw. 

I  thought  that  Chicagoans  were  not  fas- 
tidious with  anything. 

"Any  old  thing  will  do!"  they  might  say 
jollily. 

Open,  hard-working  Chicago  ! 

Has  she  much  education  ? 

loth — My  uncle  wanted  me  to  join  him  in 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  251 

visiting  a  stockyard  to  see  the  doomed  pigs 
groaning,  "  Fu,  fu,  fu  !  " 

I  declined. 

Uncle  started  off  alone. 

There  was  some  time  before  I  heard  some- 
one fisting  on  my  door. 

"A  Japanese  gentleman  wishes  to  see  your 
husband,  madam,"  a  hotel  attendant  addressed 
me. 

"  Good  God  !     My  husband  ?  "  I  cried. 

Satemo  ! 

How  could  any  porter  be  such  an  ignoramus 
as  not  to  distinguish  between  Mrs.  and  Miss ! 

Possibly  he  esteemed  me  "  modern  "  enough 
to  marry  an  old  man  for  money's  sake. 

Oya,  he  was  Mr.  Consul  of  Chicago. 

"  Walk  in,  sir  !  Uchino  hito  will  return  with- 
in an  hour  or  so.  " 

Then  I  explained  about  "my  husband.  " 

We  both  laughed. 

There  is  nothing  more  pleasing  when  in  an 
alien  country  than  a  chit-chat  in  our  native 
"  becha  becha.  " 

Japanese  speech ! 

Such  a  beautifully  indefinite,  poetically  un- 
tidy language  ! 

I  love  it. 


252  The  American  Diaiy 

i  ith — It  would  be  too  much  of  a  risk  of  one's 
life  to  stay  in  Chicago. 
Good-bye  ! 
Flowerless,  birdless  city,  sayonara ! 

BUFFALO,   i2th 

Niagara  Falls  was  a  disappointment. 

Uncle  says  I  have  still  to  learn  how  to  be 
appreciative  of  things. 

A  red  brick  chimney  by  the  Fall  spoils  the 
whole  affair,  I  do  think. 

My  uncle  was  cross,  saying  that  he  had  eat- 
en the  toughest  beef  of  his  life. 

He  seized  two  Canadian  dimes  and  a  bogus 
half-dollar  in  an  hour. 

"Poor  Uncle!  Isn't  this  Buffalo  town  aw- 
ful?" I  said. 

NEW  YORK,  i3th 

Miss  Morning  Glory  has  stepped  into 
Greater  New  York,  at  last. 

Thirteenth  of  March,  1900. 

To-day  will  be  the  special  day  of  my  family 
history. 

My  entrance  was  delightful  to  the  full. 

The  train  stole  gracefully   into  the  city  at 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  253 

early  morn.  The  sky  was  distinct  like  the 
lake  of  Biwa.  The  respectable  face  of  the  city 
accepted  us  charmingly. 

I  bounced  my  little  body  in  my  happy 
thought  of  another  chapter  of  life. 

I  felt   like    Dante  crawled   out    of  darkest 
Hell,  after  the  torture  of  the  terrible  show. 
(O  Chicago!) 

Our  kind  Japanese  consul  of  New  York  was 
looking  after  our  arrival  with  a  carriage. 

I  saw  a  horse-car  trotting. 

It  encouraged  me  to  think  that  even  an  ig- 
norant Jap  girl  might  find  her  own  living  here, 
since  such  an  old-fashioned  thing  exists  per- 
fectly. 

I  secretly  fixed  in  my  mind  that  I  will  ad- 
veture  my  independent  life  when  the  crisis 
demands. 

Our  carriage  rolled  up  Fifth  Avenue  to 
Central  Park. 

How  often  had  I  imagined  laying  me  in  this 
celebrated  ground ! 

"  Pray,  let  me  off  to  smell  the  smell  of  the 
New  York  breeze  !"  I  exclaimed. 

When  I  was  stationed  on  the  third  floor  of 
an  edifice  on  Riverside  Drive — what  a  brisk 


254  The  American  Diary 

name  in  the  world  ! — which  was  Mr.  Consul's 
home,  my  bubbling  fancies  hastened  down 
with  the  waters  of  the  Hudson  River  under 
my  window. 

Hudson  River? 

It  is  my  dear  old  acquaintance,  introduced 
by  the  ever  so  pleasing"  Mr.  Irving. 

See  its  classical  profundity  before  my  face  ! 

Where's  "  Sleepy  Hollow,  "  I  wonder  ! 

The  spectacle  of  the  river  reminded  me  of 
the  Sumida  Gawa  of  Tokio,  mirroring  the 
clouds  of  affectionate  cherry  blossoms  which 
border  its  bank.  It  would  be  a  remarkable 
idea,  I  thought,  to  petition  the  Mayor  of  New 
York  for  the  Japanese  cherry-trees  to  parade 
on  this  side  of  the  Hudson.  When  they  are 
in  flower,  I  will  open  a  tea-house  under  them, 
of  course.  My  attire  as  a  mistress  should  be 
a  little  red  crape  apron  to  begin  with.  My 
head  will  be  wound  with  a  Japanese  towel  to 
endow  my  Oriental  eyes  with  certain  better 
results.  I  will  raise  my  voice,  calling,  "  Hon- 
ourable rest  !  Honourable  tea  plucked  by  the 
choicest  musumes  !  "  What  a  novel  ! 

Romance  ! 

How  can  I  live  without  it ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl 


255 


In  that  case  I  must  entreat  the  removal  of 
the  characters  on  the  other  side,  which  are : 

"  Lots  For  Sale  !  " 

Because  I  don't  see  any  such  unaristocratic 
sign  by  the  Sumida  Gawa. 

1 4th — O  snow,  yukiya  fure,  fure  ! 

The  season  of  the  city  is  still  within  the 
fence  of  winter.  I  was  grateful  to  my  fate 
that  conveyed  me  here  to  overtake  my  loving 
snow. 

I  settled  me  by  my  window  in  absorption 
with  the  snow  view  of  Hudson  Gawa. 

How  busily  the  snowflakes  fall ! 

Their  cautiously  silent  hurry  made  me 
recollect  the  drama  of  the  China-Japan  war. 
How  stealthily  the  soldiers  marched  at  mid- 
night !  Can  I  ever  forget  how  I  tugged  my 
shoji,  crying  "Victory,  Dai  Nippon  !" 

I  raised  the  window,  stretching  out  my  arm. 
I  collected  the  snow-petals  in  the  hollow  of 
my  palm.  I  tasted  them. 

"  Uncle,  New  York  snow  is  as  deliciously 
savoured  as  at  home,"  I  said. 

Central  Park  must  have  been  artistically 
attired. 


_L^ 


256  The  American  Diary 

44  Oji  San,  let  us  go  to  the  park  for  snow- 
viewing  !  I  advise  you  to  till  a  bit  more 
poetry  in  yourself,  Uncle,"  I  announced. 

I  began  to  change  my  dress  before  his 
decision. 

1 5th — We  went  to  the  famous  Brooklyn 
Bridge. 

Verily,  New  York  gentlemen  are  interested 
with  their  papers  in  the  car.  Newspapers, 
O  newspapers  !  There's  no  slip  of  a  doubt 
that  they  would  die  without  the  sight  of  their 
newspapers.  The  unheroic  part  about  them 
is  that  they  forget  neatly  to  offer  their  seats 
to  a  lady.  Woman  loves  an  absent-minded 
man  once  in  a  while,  but  never  on  the  car,  I 
do  say. 

I  suppose  every  woman  of  this  city  has  to 
be  rich. 

Must  I  equip  a  carriage  ? 

I  do  not  see  why  I  could  not  win  the  first 
prize  with  my  Louisiana  ticket. 

How  I  wish  to  fabric  an  every-inch-a-Jap- 
anese  mansion  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  welcome 
a  thousand  tojins  to  hear  my  Jap  song  on 
Sunday ! 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  257 

"  Is  this  bridge  built  for  Americans  or 
Europeans,  Uncle?  People  crossing  here  use 
no  English,"  I  said. 

"  Liberty  Statue  ! " 

I  will  let  the  Beauty  statue  hail  from  the 
Bay  of  Yedo,  when  I  am  wealthy  enough  to 
afford  it. 

Doesn't  Nippon  signify  beauty  ? 

"  How  dear  is  that  sign,  '  Beware  of  Pick- 
pockets ! '  It  makes  me  just  feel  as  if  I  were 
at  Shinbashi  station  in  Tokio,  doesn't  it  you, 
Uncle?" 

Humbly  humble  'rikisha  men  ! 

If  I  were  besieged  by  them  imploring  me  to 
take  a  little  honourable  ride,  the  scene  would 
be  complete. 

I  miss  such  a  merry  car  in  Amerikey. 

We  walked  down  Broadway.  We  came  to 
a  graveyard. 

Tombstones  in  the  midst  of  commerce ! 

O  romantic  New  York  ! 

I  wondered  how  Wall  Street  gentlemen 
would  be  struck  glancing  at  them. 

What  a  soft  silence  hovered  ! 

The  old  Gothic  Church  was  my  own  ideal. 

"  Uncle,  let  us  fall  in  and  rest !  "  I  cried. 


258  The  American  Diary 

The  morning  service  was  proceeding. 

Alas  and  alas  ! 

Not  one  soul  was  there. 

Is  this  a  religious  city  ? 

The  inside  was  compact  of  heavenly  purple 
air.  Mr.  Bishop — whatever  he  may  be —  ges- 
tured like  another  being  from  a  loftier  realm. 
A  beautiful  boy  (there's  no  greater  fascination 
than  a  boy  with  a  prayer-book)  supported  the 
service.  Intangibleness  of  speech  is  itself  a 
divine  charm. 

"  Will  you  mind  asking  Mr.  Bishop  whether 
he  wants  a  sweeping  girl  ?  I  wish  I  were 
given  just  a  chance  to  clean  such  a  holy  church, 
uncle." 

Then  I  looked  up  to  Mr.  Secretary. 

1 6th — It  seems  to  me  a  recent  style  that 
New  York  ladies  discard  their  babies  to  leave 
them  in  the  hands  of  European  immigrants 
(very  likely  they  want  them  to  learn  an  un- 
grammatical  hodge-podge,  as  respectableness 
is  old-fashioned)  and  accompany  a  dog  with 
mighty  affection. 

O  my  dear  "  chin  "  that  I  left  at  home  ! 

Shall  I  call  it  to  Amerikey  ? 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  259 

Little  loyal  thing,  pathetic,  clinging ! 
I  am  sure  it  would  beat  any  other  in  a  dog 
contest. 

1 7th — I  never  saw  such  hungry  eyes  in  my 
life  as  those  of  an  organ-grinder,  set  upon  the 
windows  for  a  dropping  penny. 

To  an  artist  they  would  hint  of  a  prisoner's 
bloodshot  eyes  numbed  by  useless  gazing  to- 
ward the  light  of  the  world. 

Poor  Italians ! 

They  don't  know  one  thing  but  turning  the 
handle. 

The  last  two  days  they  placed  their  organ — 
read  their  sign,  "  Garibaldi  &  Co." — under  my 
apartment  at  the  same  hour  for  my  bit  money. 

I  thought  one  of  them  might  be  a  grandson 
of  the  renowned  Italian  patriot.  How  inter- 
esting it  would  be  to  be  told  of  his  shipwreck 
in  life ! 

Now  three  o'clock. 

There's  one  more  hour  before  their  frolic 
music  will  gush. 

I  must  wrap  some  money  in  paper  for  them. 

God  bless  them — simple  creatures  who  work 
hard! 


260  The  American  Diary 

1 8th — Mr.  Consul — an  old  man  who  sips  the 
grayness  of  celibacy — never  strays  out  from 
his  official  duty.  He  calls  society  and  novels 
two  recent  pieces  of  foolery. 

The  family  of  Uncle's  intimate  is  off  in 
Europe. 

The  possibility  of  a  nice  time  for  me  is  ver- 
ily illegible.  Tsumaranai ! 

Last  night  I  sketched  an  adventure  of  en- 
listing in  the  band  of  domestics. 

"  Capital  idea  to  examine  a  New  York 
household  ! "  I  said,  when  I  left  my  breakfast 
table. 

I  humbled  myself  to  a  newspaper  office  with 
the  following  shamefaced  advertisement : 

"Jap  girl,  nineteen,  good-looking,  longs  for 
a  place  in  a  family  of  the  first  rank." 

I  used  every  kind  of  oratory  to  bring  my 
uncle  to  agree  to  my  two  weeks  of  freedom. 

1 9th — Two  letters  were  waiting  me  at  the 
office. 

One  from  No.  296  of  a  certain  part. 

296? 

Unfortunately  it  sounds  like  "  nikumu  "  in 
Japanese,  meaning  hatred. 


of  a  Japanese  Girl  261 

And  the  other  was  from  Fifth  Avenue. 

Parlour  maid. 

Twelve  dollars  for  a  month. 

I  shall  accept  it,  since  it  is  the  proper  quar- 
ter for  seeing  the  high-toned  New  Yorker. 

I  feel  already  a  servant  feeling. 

I  am  sorry  that  I  didn't  discipline  myself 
before  in  dusting. 

I  will  style  me  an  honest  worker  for  awhile. 
"  Toiling  for  my  daily  bread,"  does  ring  an 
American  sound,  doesn't  it  ? 

"  Domestic  girl  has  no  right,  I  think,  to  sit 
with  Messrs.  Consul  and  Secretary,"  I  said, 
moving  my  dinner  plate  to  the  kitchen  table. 

Morning  Glory,  isn't  it  time  you  changed 
the  book  of  your  diary  ? 

Really,  sir  ! 

Let  me  close  now  with  a  ceremonious  bow ! 

My  next  book  shall  be  entitled  : 
"THE  DIARY  OF  A  PARLOUR  MAID." 


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